


Fading Light

by AllyinthekeyofX



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Cancer, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Heavy on the angst, Hurt/Comfort, MSR, RST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-20 15:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 50,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8253581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllyinthekeyofX/pseuds/AllyinthekeyofX
Summary: Scully's cancer returns and hope comes at a high price.





	1. Part 1 Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpookyCrispita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpookyCrispita/gifts).



> This is a complete re-post due to me formatting it totally wrongly the first time around. I deleted the original which meant I lost all my comments which makes me kind of cry but it's been niggling me for a while now and because I messed up with posting it originally, it made it horrible to read.
> 
> This work would never have turned out the way it did if it weren't for my fabulous beta Crispita who clamoured for more and made me keep going!

PART ONE

Prologue

My Father once told me that secrets are like old wounds. That no matter how skilfully we hide the scars, they are still there, lingering beneath the surface. Invisible to the eye, but all too obvious if we take the time to really feel them. There are no good secrets. Even the ones we hide in our hearts to protect the people we love will eventually find a way to push themselves up through the layers of deception.

I've discovered that we can never hope to protect through lies and after all, isn't a secret just another name for a lie?

Semantics

Mulder would laugh if he could hear me now. Arguing with myself as I lay, eyes wide open, staring up at the patterns made by the street lamps refracted through the rain that streams down my window.

I'm not sure what time it is. I don't seem to sleep much, which is strange, because all I want to do at this moment is close my eyes and sink down into its welcoming arms.

To escape from the accusatory voices in my head for a short while would be wonderful, but I just can't seem to relax enough. If I'm honest with myself though, I'm well aware of the reason for my insomnia.

It is guilt; pure and simple.

I have a secret, and no matter how often I tell myself that I am keeping it from him to protect him, I still feel its presence every minute of every day. I keep it hidden because in doing so I am attempting to shield him from a truth he is ready to neither hear nor accept.

Every day I keep the truth from him is another day spent tiptoeing around him, so afraid that he will look into my eyes and see my lies.  
It was easy in the beginning. 

Mulder was still shattered over the death of his Mother and I was there for him as he fell apart piece by harrowing piece, supporting him as he has supported me throughout our partnership. I watched over him like the proverbial mother hen as his quest threatened to take him over the edge, ready to drag him back should the need have arisen.

For once he didn't need me to catch him and as each day passed he learned more facts behind his sister's disappearance and finally, finally I was rewarded when he came back to me. Not entirely at peace sure - we have seen and experienced too much for that ever to happen - but I saw the stress literally roll off him as, in his own words, he was set free.

How can I take that sense of peace away from him now?

I have remained silent, promising myself, as I promise myself now, that tomorrow I will tell him.

It's ironic in a way, because even I don't believe it anymore.

XXXXXXXXX

 

Chapter 0ne

Mulder is not in the sweetest of moods. He tries his best to hide it, but it was obvious from the moment he arrived flustered and dishevelled at my door this morning.

I'm not sure exactly why we started this whole car pool thing. It certainly wasn't out of any sense of wanting to save the planet, it just kind of happened.

I had offered Mulder a ride home one night when he was without his car - I can't remember why he was without it - and he decided it was only right and proper to return the favour. It seems to have set a pattern now that neither of us is willing to break, and it's strange really, but I kind of enjoy it. I like the fact that his face is the first one that greets me every morning.

Usually I like it that is.

But on days like today, when he is edgy and tense, I wish to hell I could just make him stop the damn car so I can escape out in to the clogged Washington streets and hail a cab. We have hardly spoken during the ride in, just the barest early morning pleasantries. No small talk, no innuendo, no teasing glances. In fact, so far all Mulder has given me is the charming view of his set profile as he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.

We are running late for the office, which is never a good thing, especially not today. Today is the second Wednesday in the month. Second Wednesdays mean inter-departmental meetings. Which in turn usually mean bureaucratic scrutiny of our recently submitted expense reports. I hate the meetings almost as much as Mulder does. The difference being, that I don't tend to show it quite as blatantly. But at least we no longer have to suffer the dubious pleasure of AD Kersch as we attempt to justify flying halfway across the country on nothing more substantial than some redneck's sighting of lights in his cow field. Skinner is no less forgiving when we balls things up, but he’s more used to it and therefore more accepting of it. 

Mulder mutters something under his breath as the car in front slows down to a virtual crawl. I don't bother trying to figure out what it was. The very fact that we are attempting to negotiate rush hour traffic pretty much tells me that whatever it was, it wasn't pleasant and certainly has no need for a response from me. So instead, I just lean my head against the seat rest and close my eyes against the headache that is beginning to pulse at the centre of my forehead.

I think that the headaches were the first clear sign that something wasn't right, although for a couple of weeks I was able to pretty much deny their existence. Self-denial is a powerful force, a bit like encasing a broken ankle in a plaster cast. The pain is gone, pushed in to the background, and it's almost impossible to imagine that the broken bone ever happened at all. Until of course you walk on it at the wrong angle and the pain is back to remind you to take more care.

That's how it was with me. Only my versions of the plaster cast were non-prescription pain pills. Until they weren't enough, even when foolishly, I was taking well over the required dosage.

And then came the day when I couldn't deny it any longer. I remember it vividly. A Saturday spent shopping with my Mother I was in so much pain I could hardly stand. She noticed of course and I remember making vague assurances that I was fine, made my excuses and headed for home. I made it through the door, watched as the room began to spin in that endearing way I had come to recognize from scant years back in the early manifestations of the disease, and woke up three hours later on the floor, still clutching my house keys in my hand.

I wish now with all my heart that I had answered the basic need that pounded incessantly in my head.

Call Mulder.

Instead I had called Dr Zuckerman.

Every day since then, I have been trying to find the right words, the right moment, to broach the subject with Mulder, and right along with it, I have found a thousand excuses as to why now isn't the right time.

Of course I realize that the right time is never going to happen, and that the longer I keep putting it off, the harder it's going to get.

Especially since I have already decided that this time, treatment to prolong the inevitable is not an option for me and whilst I don’t profess to really know or understand exactly what my ‘cure’ entailed the last time around, I am smart enough to realise that its mechanism would never be found written on a treatment protocol. So I have opted to do nothing. To wait out the inevitable. I will continue to work for as long as I can. Until I’m once again incapable. But for how long I can keep up the pretence is anyone’s guess.

Not to mention the fact that Mulder is neither stupid nor blind. Eventually he will figure this thing out for himself, and deep down, I can't help wondering if he already suspects something. A paranoid little voice is whispering that I am the reason for his dark mood this morning. Which when I think about it is ridiculous.

Oh yeah. Guilt really sucks.

Suddenly, I am catapulted from my musings and transported violently back in to the here and now as Mulder curses loudly, swerving the car savagely to the left even before the word is fully formed on his lips.

"FUCK!"

I'm not entirely sure what he has seen to provoke such a reaction. Mulder rarely, if ever curses aloud. And then I hear it. A sound I have become so attuned to over the years I could recognize it in my sleep.

The sound of gunfire. Close by.

My senses hone in on the sound, and beside me Mulder is already moving, unbuckling his Seat belt and reaching for the door handle in one fluid movement. Even as I automatically follow his lead I am still searching for answers as to why exactly we have come to a halt in the middle of rush hour traffic. But, like pieces of a jigsaw the answers fall together as I finally see what he sees.

My years on the job have taught me to assimilate information pretty quickly. Headache or not, this is no exception. In the space of a heartbeat my consciousness has thrown several words at me.

Bank. Alarms. Guns. Robbery

Great. Just another fun day in the lives of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, where even a ride to work has the capacity to become a fucked up nightmare.

The shoes I chose to wear today are definitely not made for pounding the pavement. More blisters for me tonight.

Mulder of course doesn't have quite the same fashion impairment and even before I have fully cleared the car door he has taken off like a track star, waving his gun around and cutting a swath through the early morning streets like Moses parting the Red Sea. He can move pretty fast for a guy approaching forty, and, whilst I am not exactly a slug myself, an extra six inches of leg length makes all the difference and I find myself trailing further and further behind.

As I run, I can hear Mulder shouting something, but the wind is against me and his words are lost in the slipstream making them almost unintelligible. Instead, I concentrate on keeping him in sight. The perp is somewhere ahead and by the pace Mulder is keeping, seems to have no intention of giving up the fight easily.

I'm not sure what happens next.

A deafening sound that threatens to split my now pounding head in two; Mulders horrified shout.

"SCULLY!"

A blow that stops me in my tracks and slams me to the ground.

It's funny actually, because even as I am aware of falling, I don't feel anything other than a faint buzzing in my head as the pavement rushes up to meet me. No pain, no fear and certainly no understanding as to what has just happened.

But through the white noise that surrounds me, I hear another gunshot. And then another.

The sound seems to act as a catalyst for my own awareness and the dreamlike quality I had wallowed in for maybe a couple of seconds is replaced by a burning hot pain that seems to radiate through my whole body.

Shit. This really hurts.

I am reminded of the time when I fell out of the tree house that my brother Bill had spent the summer building with his cronies. I had been mercilessly chased away every time I dared show my face. A seven year old younger sister - a girl - had not been welcome in that den of pre-pubescent masculinity. 

So, tomboy that I was, I had snuck over there one night and undertaken the precarious climb through the twisted boughs to reach what was forbidden to me; I'd made it up ok -getting down though had been a different undertaking all together and trees tend not to be very forgiving to seven year olds who don't have the sense to realize when they are way out of their depth. I nursed a broken wrist for the rest of the summer, and it had taken years for me to forget the white hot pain I felt as that fragile bone snapped cleanly.. But, with typical childhood resilience I had forgotten.

Until now that is.

Flesh wounds hurt. Gunshot wounds hurt. Damaged bones hurt like a bitch.

I'm unsure as to how much time has elapsed since I first heard Mulder shout out my name although I suspect it is no more than a few seconds at most.

Mulder

Shit, where is he?

Three shots Dana.

Count em. 

Three.

Oh Fuck.

My eyes snap open, which in itself is futile really because I can't seem to focus on anything other than the pavement which is tilting at an impossible angle before me. I can just make out a collection of coloured blobs in the near distance and although they are fuzzy around the edges I am able to recognize them as being human. From their size and shape I am also able to determine that they are crouched down, hugging the ground as thought their lives depend on it.

But my only thought right now is for Mulders well being. Nothing else matters to me and not for the first time I am aware that what I feel for him goes way beyond the accepted boundaries of our friendship, because, had it been anyone other than Mulder, I would just close my eyes and allow myself some respite from the terrible pain that now overwhelms me.

But sometimes, even the purest love cannot conquer the frailties of the human body. As I shift my weight fractionally to the right in order to release the arm that is trapped beneath me, I am engulfed in a wave of agony so intense that despite myself I close my eyes and scream. Maybe I screamed out his name. I don't know. But it doesn't matter anyway. Nothing matters except the sudden feeling of Mulders hands on my face, smoothing away the hair that is plastered against my cheeks. And I hear his voice from far away. He is frightened. I have frightened him.

Just like he's frightened me in the past.

So much fear for two people to bear in a lifetime.

"Sssshhhhhhh Scully, It's ok....don't try to move...it's gonna be ok. Ssssshhhhhhh."

Slowly the pain diminishes a fraction and I am able to open my eyes again. Maybe a little of the initial shock has subsided, or perhaps a gnawing desperation that needs me to know he's ok, allows me to finally focus enough to look deep in to his eyes.

Mulder has beautiful eyes, the most expressive eyes I have ever seen in my life. I could easily lose myself in their depths, which is why I don't allow myself to stare in to them too often. Right now he is fighting tears and not making a very fine job of it. I know how he feels. I've been there too. I've watched him hurting far more times than I care to remember and each and every time I have found myself crying real tears for him when he has been unable to shed his own.

Just like he is crying for me now.

Despite the pain, I am able to shakily reach up a hand that feels like a dead weight and catch that first tear as it escapes its confines. Watching as it traces a crystalline trail down my finger. I want to speak, to let him know I'm fine, but just that small movement has left me as weak as a day old kitten snatched from its Mother and I just want to close my eyes and sleep. Instead, I fix my gaze on his; attempting to communicate to him through sight what I am unable to do with speech.

I'm so sorry I didn't tell you Mulder. And now it's too late.

He is going to find out.

My secret is no longer going to be mine alone and I need to hang on to consciousness for as long as I can, because, I know that if I close my eyes now, the next time I open them, everything will have changed.

 

Continued chapter 2


	2. Part 1 chapter 2

PART ONE

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Hospitals are strange places. I should know. It sometimes feels like I've spent half my adult life in them and they are probably one of the few places on Earth where, regardless of time or circumstance, any number of people can be relied upon to come running should you call for help because Hospitals never really sleep and although corridor lights are muted and voices become softer in deference to the hour, there is never true silence.

Usually I find that thought comforting, especially at night. Listening to the sounds that filter up through the corridors, reminding me I am not alone. That people are out there watching over me.

But not this time.

This time it wouldn't matter if there were a thousand people crammed in to this tiny cubicle of a room all talking to me at once. Because there is only one person I really want to see and he's not here.

I haven't seen him since yesterday morning when he gently smoothed my hair off my forehead and held my hand tightly when the jolting of the ambulance caused me to cry out in pain from behind the oxygen mask covering my face. I managed to stay conscious throughout that hellish journey to the ER and as the morphine had kicked in had even managed to determine just what had happened to me out there on the street.

Of course, I hadn't exactly been capable of coherent conversation at that point, but I had at least understood what the harried young Doctor was telling me.

Gunshot wound to the upper femur.

Bone trauma.

Just peachy.

Bad enough that they had to dig yet another bullet out of me, without complicating the issue with a broken leg. 

The bone it seems had stopped the bullet in its tracks - literally - and whilst I am told that the damage isn't severe, it was deemed severe enough to warrant a trip down to the operating theatre for a quick patch repair job.

For some reason, which I still can't quite fathom, hearing those words had reduced me to a gibbering wreck. I've never been in the least bit afraid of general anaesthetics and God knows I've been on the receiving end of enough over the years, but this time I was gripped with the morbid fear that I would never wake up again.

The morphine hadn't exactly helped. It had dulled the pain admirably, but that, combined with the adrenaline still coursing through my body meant I hadn't exactly been firing on all cylinders. So I had done the only thing that had made sense at the time. I cried. Hard.

I think Mulder was more than a little concerned to see his usually stoic partner bawling like a baby when faced with the prospect of a little routine surgery, but to his credit he had not batted one perfect eyelash. Instead he quietly asked for a little time alone with me, perching carefully on the edge of the gurney, ever aware of jarring my injured leg and took my hand in his.

I can still feel the way he traced circles in my palm with his thumb while he had concentrated his other hand on the task of gently wiping the tears from my face. Just that simple gesture calmed me, reminded me for the thousandth time just how much I rely on him to make everything right again. In much the same way as he relies on me to do the same for him.

And right alongside that though came a stark realization that this time, nothing I do will ever make things right again.

But there is no one on this Earth who can do what Mulder can do, and even as I began to cry again, his touch began to calm me. It's a skill born out of years of painful practice and as my sobs had quieted he began to speak. Soft words, calming words, protective words. Nothing really specific, just gentle nonsense that stole away my fear and I had grown so sleepy as I listened to him soothing me as a parent might soothe a fretting child, feeling  
his hands on my skin, tracing patterns only he understood.  
I'm not entirely sure whether I fell asleep or whether the morphine finally kicked in fully, but the last thing I remember are his lips soft against my forehead as he whispered an assurance that he would be waiting for me  
when I woke up.  
Stupidly, senses dulled by pain, I allowed myself to believe him. I had forgotten what I had done.

Forgotten that soon nothing between us would ever be the same again.

Maybe I should have told him right there and then. I should have struggled against the pain and the fatigue and just told him. But it was easier to float away, to ignore it yet again. So, predictably I took the coward's way out and did just that.

I wasn't surprised to wake up alone.

I'm not surprised that I have stayed that way.

It wasn't so bad initially. My battered system was still fighting the anaesthetic and it was easy to just close my eyes against the hurt and drift back to sleep. But each time I awoke it was a little bit later in the day and I was a little more aware of what was going on around me; until, about an hour ago I eventually reached the point where I am now. 

There is a deep throbbing pain inside me that runs from my right shoulder all the way to my toes and whilst the intravenous pain relief is tempering it slightly, it's still sickening enough to keep my eyes open and fixed on the ceiling above my bed.

Moving is currently out of the question because the slightest twitch from the waist down causes the throb to escalate rapidly in to an all out exercise in torture.

I am tempted to ask for stronger pain relief but I need to stay alert for when Mulder comes back. I need to be able to look deep in to his eyes and make him understand why I didn't tell him about the Cancer.

I don't expect him to forgive me though. All I'm hoping at this point is that he at least understands my motivation. Beyond that I have no idea where we'll go.

In my wildest dreams I find myself hoping that he'll simply take me in his arms and hold me. That he'll forgive me in every way he needs to so we can move past this.

But deep down I know that it's not going to happen. I know, because if our roles were reversed I would be mortified he hadn't trusted me enough to confide in me. Sure, Mulder has ditched me in the past. He's ditched me more times than I can recall. But that has always been a physical action. Not so much out of a question of trust but more born from the need he has inside of him to keep me safe. It's misguided and impractical and it annoys the hell out of me, but at least I can understand it.

What I've done is different somehow.

What I've done is so much worse and if I could take back the past six weeks and do them over I would. I know now how wrong I was not to tell him immediately. I ignored the voice of reason inside of me and listened instead to my heart. A heart that has never wanted to hurt him.

Ironic really because I've managed to achieve exactly the opposite and in doing so I'm terribly afraid that I've lost him forever.

I close my eyes once again as I feel them begin to burn with unshed tears. I can't keep crying like this. It won't solve anything. I need to stay strong enough to see this thing through. Until that happens I'll be the Dana Scully I have so carefully constructed over the years.

Hard, cold, unfeeling.

But not with him.

Never with him. 

Or at least not anymore. My final promise to myself.

Continued chapter 3


	3. Part 1 chapter 3

PART ONE

CHAPTER THREE

Somewhere in between making a thousand promises to myself and the breaking of dawn, I must have fallen asleep again, because, as I lay here I can see the brightness of the sun behind my closed lids.

I have no idea what the time is, only that it is day where before it was night. But time doesn't really matter to me at the moment because, without even opening my eyes I know he is here beside me.

Call it my Mulder radar.

To anyone who knows him as well as I do there are subtle but telling clues. A hint of that spicy cologne he wears tickles my nostrils, able to permeate my senses even through the sharp, antiseptic scent of the hospital sheets, sheets which incidentally provide another clue. Mulder has this thing about sheets and blankets, at least where I'm concerned. He is convinced that they should be pulled up almost to my chin and I can't count the number of times I have fallen asleep on his battered couch, only to awaken hours later almost suffocating from the heat.

On the one hand I find it intensely annoying that he feels the need to mother me in this way, but, another part of me secretly enjoys his concern. I take comfort from the fact that he cares enough about me to tuck blankets around me when I'm sleeping.

But Hospital rooms are temperature regulated and right now I am feeling uncomfortably hot. The sun streaming through the window isn't helping much either.

I can also hear him breathing and the sound and cadence tells me whether he is awake or not.

I suppose we all have different breathing patterns, but, in all honesty I had never really thought about it much in my pre Mulder existence. Certainly I had never given any credence to the notion that a person could be recognizable by that alone.

But then, I have never really taken the time to find out with anyone else and not for the first time I wonder just when I got to know this man so well.

When did I allow myself to accept him in to my life so completely?

I can no longer imagine a time when Mulder wasn't working beside me and yet it has only been seven years. When did seven years turn in to a lifetime?

Hearing a creak as he shifts position slightly in the chair beside me, I strain to keep my eyes closed for just a little while longer. The longer I can keep them closed, the longer I can stall the inevitable confrontation that is surely going to come.

I'm not ready to face him. I'm not ready to see the hurt in his face that I am responsible for creating.

But, a need to affirm that he is really here beside me outweighs any self imposed guilt and slowly I shrug off the last lingering vestiges of sleep and raise my eyes to meet his.

He looks tired. Wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, rumpled, dishevelled as though he's slept in them. If he's slept at all that is. His strong jaw is darkened by stubble and its presence lends him a dangerous air.

I like Mulder with stubble. I always have done, although it would take a thousand armies to drag that particular snippet of information out of me. And, finally I reach the part of him I most need to see. The only piece of him that will tell me what I need to know and as china blue meets hazel I finally find the answer to the question that has been gnawing at me.

He knows.

I don't need words to tell me. Just his expression is enough to affirm my greatest fears and I know he is shattered inside.

Disappointment; rejection; confusion. 

Hurt.

They radiate off him in waves and suddenly my throat feels so tight I am unable to breathe. I have no idea what to say to him. How do I even start? Because a simple apology isn't going to undo this kind of damage.

Just by looking at him I realize how stupid I have been. I thought I was protecting him by not telling him. Allowing him the time he needed to process his Mother's death, the revelations about his Sister. Persuading myself that he deserved this chance at peace however brief it might have been. But now I understand that I wasn't doing it to protect only him. I was also trying to protect myself. Protect myself from a man who I know would willingly lay down his life for me.

I've known for the longest time that he loves me.

What I didn't realize until now is that he is in love with me.

This beautiful, complex, irritating, brilliant, vulnerable man is actually in love with me.

And that realization scares me more than I can even comprehend, because it will make all this so much harder to deal with. I don't even want to deal with it right now. I'm hurting, I'm tired and all I really want him to do is to put his arms around me and whisper soothing words in my ear.

But he doesn't of course. He just sits there making no attempt to move towards me as he keeps his eyes on mine. Unblinking, unwavering as the silence stretches between us, widening the gap that separates us in to a ravine. It's so quiet I can actually hear my own heartbeat inside my chest and for a second I marvel at the fact that a human heart can bear so much pain and still carry on.

I want to speak to him, to beg for his forgiveness. Needing so desperately to make him understand why I did what I did, but I just can't open my mouth. If I speak now, the words will be lost in a stream of self pitying tears. Tears which are hovering dangerously close to the surface and which I refuse to subject him to. I've done quite enough damage to him already.

In fact, it is Mulder who chooses to speak first. Maybe he sees the pleading in my expression. I don't know. But I silently send up a prayer of thanks as he opts to stick to safe territory.

"Hey Scully. How're you feeling?"

I shrug noncommittally.

In truth I feel like I've been tossed off a very high building and run down a few times by an over enthusiastic truck driver. But to admit that would be weakness, and Dana Scully doesn't show weakness. 

No Siree.

"I'm fine. A little sore that's all."

Mulder smirks at my response. I'm sure that after seven years in my company he expects nothing more from me because, after all, it's the only response he ever gets.

Gunshot wound? I'm fine. 

Death of a loved one? I'm fine. 

Terminal Cancer? Oh yeah I’m just Fine. 

Doesn't make a difference as to what I'm really feeling when he asks, because the wall around me dictates that I'm always fucking Fine. I hate this part of myself, but I just don't know how to change it.

"Good." he ventures uncertainly, reaching forwards to pour water in to the plastic tumbler beside my bed. I haven't asked him for water, hadn't even been aware that my throat feels scratchy and uncomfortable before now. But as he gently places a hand to the back of my neck, drawing me forwards enough to put my lips against the plastic, my thirst is suddenly raging. He is careful as always though; tipping his other hand just enough to allow me small sips of the deliciously cool liquid. Mulder knows all too well the effects of taking too much water after a general anaesthetic. We both do.

"I spoke to your Doctor. He seems to think you'll be out of here in a few days. You might need some help when you get out though; might be a good idea to stay with your Mom for a while."

I know he means well, but to be honest, as much as I love my Mother, the thought of being around her twenty four hours a day fills me with horror. I don't need mothering right now. I need is space to come to terms with everything in my own way.

I drop my eyes from Mulders and busy my hands by plucking at the rough hospital issue blanket.

"I think I'd just rather go home. I'll be fine."

He doesn't answer me. I don't expect him to I suppose, because we both know that if there's anything in this world I'm not going to be, fine ranks pretty high on the list.

My fingers tease harder and I am rewarded when a thread comes loose. Finally I have something to focus on other than Mulders presence beside me. I watch numbly as I wrap the thin piece of white cotton around my index finger, releasing it to scrutinize the fine, white lines that have appeared in its wake disappear as blood once again flows to the area. Within a couple of seconds it is impossible to even determine where the welts were.

If only life was that simple.

Mulder shifts position again. He has to be uncomfortable. I have no idea how long he has sat there but hospital chairs tend not to be kind to a person's posture, and especially to someone with legs the length of his.

The silence is killing me. I want him to say something , anything, because avoiding the issue isn't going to make it go away. I want him to rant and rave at me if that's what he needs to do. And if he hates me now I need to hear it. I know he is holding back for fear of hurting me. That even now he is trying to protect me and I really have no reason to question his motives because, after all, haven't I been doing the exact same thing to him?

Talk to him! A voice inside me screams. Make him understand.

But I can't. I can't bring myself to even look at him now.

I'm not surprised when I hear him rise from the chair. His being here is making both of us uncomfortable and he has the good sense to know it's time for him to leave.

"You're tired. I'll come back later." He ventures and I close my eyes, knowing that for now there is nothing more for us to say to each other.  
I've blown it. Again.

He leans down towards me and for a second, I am sure he is going to kiss me. I don't think I could bear that right now and almost against my will, I turn my head slightly away from him, giving him a clearer message than I intended with that simple act of denial.

Please don't.

He understands my silent plea and so instead, settles for hooking one long finger around an errant strand of my hair which he smoothes gently away from my face. It's a gesture he has performed a hundred times before, but one which now threatens to make me shatter in to tiny pieces in front of him.

Feeling his touch reminds me yet again of just how lucky am to have him. He would never intentionally seek to hurt me and despite the things I have done, today is no exception. I don't deserve him. I don't believe I ever have.

And then he is gone, leaving only the memory of his touch against my skin which tingles slightly as if charged with low voltage electricity.

He heads for the door without looking back, and I am surprised when, at the doorway, he turns slowly, showing me an unguarded view of his desperation.

"How long have you known?"

I'm tempted to lie to him. Lying would be so easy at this point. Because although I am fully aware that he could, if he wanted, gain access to my personal medical records, I know he would never abuse my trust in that way. But I could lie. Or at least absolve some of the blame from myself by stretching the truth a little. But he deserves so much more than that and it is with this knowledge that I swallow heavily and give him the answer he so desperately needs from me.

"A little over six weeks."

I swear I see him physically react to my words. He seems to recoil slightly as the full meaning of my admission sinks in.

Six weeks of sharing time and space with him. Six weeks of laughing and joking and crying. Six weeks of lying.

Six fucking weeks.

It might as well be a lifetime.

I wait for him to speak, to cross back over to the bed, to ask me why. But he does none of those things. Instead he just nods curtly.

"Thank you."

And then he is gone, leaving me once again alone.

And I know I deserve it.

I am hurting inside, scared of what the return of this disease will mean for me. But he is hurting too and I would do anything to take that hurt away from him.

Bad enough that I need to suffer. I never intended for him to suffer too.

Continued chapter four


	4. Part 1 chapter 4

PART ONE

CHAPTER FOUR

 

Eight days later

It's nice to be home. Surrounded by the only things in my life that actually seem to mean something, small items of sentimental value, knick-knacks from happier times, keepsakes of a life I once had and each one as familiar to   
me as the memories they represent.  
No one was more surprised than me at how easily I was able to return here after the horrors of my second encounter with Donnie Pfaster because I had wondered whether I would ever feel truly safe here ever again. And for a few days the rooms had seemed as though they still hung on to his presence. Every time I closed my eyes I could see him and the expression of serene acceptance on his face when I had pulled that trigger and ended his life. Almost as if I had behaved exactly as he expected me to.

 

It took me a considerable length of time to let those images go, to rationalise my actions, to release the guilt that gnawed inside of me.

But, slowly, the ghosts settled, allowing me once again to walk the rooms of my own little fortress and not feel the need to constantly look over my shoulder.

Mulder helped of course. Staying here with me after I had insisted on returning a scant forty eight hours later, when, the forensics team had finally gathered enough evidence from my home to pack up and leave. And despite my protests to the contrary, I had been relieved at his suggestion that I maybe shouldn't be alone.

I hadn't needed him here for long though. Two days of me watching him trying in vain to stretch the sofa-induced kinks out of his neck had been enough for me and I had sent him on his way. Back to his own apartment.

Back to his life.

Such as it is.

I kid myself that I am happier being alone. Just another one of those self-imposed defence mechanisms that I have become so adept at hiding behind, and I've told myself so many times in the last few years that I actually almost believe it.

Only now, as I listen to the sound of my Mother's retreating footsteps on the hard wooden floor of the corridor outside, I know for sure that I have been lying to myself all along.

I hate being alone. I think I always have.

Mom didn't want to leave. She doesn't understand why I am refusing her help. I finally told her about the Cancer three days ago. Without a hint of self pity I spelled out the grim realities of just what the return of the disease meant for me. I didn't hold anything back, recounting the details with as much detachment as I could muster. It makes me cringe to think about it now because, for all the emotion I showed, I might as well have been transcribing the details of a recently performed autopsy. Even when I saw the look of abject horror on her face as the true meaning of my words sank in I never wavered.

She cried of course. I expected nothing less and I had allowed her to envelop me in her embrace as she clung to me; as though by the strength of her touch alone, she could make me well.

I hated myself afterwards. But then, I'm getting used to that particular feeling so I didn't waste time dwelling on it.

It's now nine days since that morning on the pavement. Nine days since Mulder shot and killed a nineteen year old kid who had the audacity to hurt his partner. I know that questions have been asked as to the validity of Mulders actions and he has apparently been questioned at length by OPR regarding the events that took place that day. But, I can't see why there should be any cause for concern.

Because, while Mulders methods have been questionable in the past, the fact remains that the kid fired two shots, indiscriminately, during a running pursuit through a crowded street. Mulder simply acted in a way any sane law enforcement officer would have done given the circumstances.

He removed the threat.

The fact that eye witnesses have since come forward and implied that Mulder may have acted improperly, that he did not identify himself in the proper manner to allow the kid to release his weapon, have all but been dismissed. And from what I can gather, he has been exonerated of all charges of professional misconduct.

I would like to question him myself on this. Unfortunately, I haven't had the opportunity since I have neither seen nor heard from him in over a week.

Eight days have passed since he walked out of that hospital room, and temporarily or not, to all intents and purposes, out of my life.

I heard about the OPR hearings through Skinner. He visited once, bearing a bouquet of white carnations that invoked such painful memories in me that I actually felt a physical ache inside my heart that for a few seconds burned and twisted, stealing the very breath from my body.

It was an awkward meeting to say the least. Mulder had obviously brought him up to speed on my condition and he spent the next forty-five minutes trying to say all the right things to me. What he actually managed to say was absolutely nothing at all and after giving me mumbled assurances that I was to take as much time as I needed, he left.

 

I immediately summoned a nurse and asked her to remove the white flowers from the room. She gave me an odd look but professionalism prevented her from questioning me on it and she did as I requested. She patently didn't understand. But then I didn't expect her to.

No one understands except Mulder and he wasn’t there to share my painful memories our boss had unwittingly invoked.

I've tried calling him. Several times in fact.

I've tried to convince myself that I'm calling out of a need to know that he's ok, out of concern for him. But in reality I am just answering the selfish need inside myself to hear the sound of his voice again.

I miss him. It's that simple.

And yes, I'm also slightly worried about him, especially since I have no idea where he is or what he's doing. I didn't let it bother me for the first few days. I tempered my worry by telling myself he was just off somewhere nursing his Scully-inflicted wounds, expecting foolishly, for him to return at least one of my messages. When he didn't, I swallowed my pride and called Frohike to beg for information as to his whereabouts.

Frohike was concerned, courteous, supportive.

And of absolutely no help whatsoever. Either he doesn't know or he isn't saying, which of course helps me not one iota. He also succeeded admirably in neither calling me ‘Red’ nor engaging in the playful flirting that has dogged me ever since I met him so many years ago. And that tells me that he is aware of my current state of health; which means he has seen Mulder recently.

All Skinner will tell me is that Mulder is on leave. That after the culmination of the OPR hearing he put in a request for some time off. Time off Skinner apparently approved. He professes to have no idea as to Mulders whereabouts or what he is doing. And that would be ok but for one small detail.

He's lying.

Skinner isn't a good liar. He never has been. But for all his inadequacies in that regard, he is highly skilled in the art of protecting the agents under his command. And right now he's protecting Mulder; or me; maybe even both of us. I don't know anymore. And right now I am just too tired to think about it. I feel like I have thought of nothing else for the past week and that, together with a headache that has been pretty much constant since the shooting, has left me feeling weak and shaky and totally unlike my usual self.

But at least I'm home and that's a start I guess.

I finally lift my forehead from where I rested it against the door and survey my surroundings. The place is spotless. Not that I'm a particularly untidy person but, my Mother brings new levels to the art of cleaning house. Every surface gleams like new while vases of freshly cut flowers brighten the room. I love flowers – or at least most flowers - although I rarely take the time to buy them. My work with Mulder dictates that we travel a lot and I have found through painful experience that returning from a gruelling case file to a home full of wilting plant life is depressing to say the least.

Oh yeah. I stopped buying flowers a long time ago. 

I'm not as happy to be here as I thought I would be. I've thought of little else other than to leave that stuffy, antiseptic room in which I was incarcerated and I think my assurances to my Doctor that I would be able to manage alone went a long way towards him agreeing to discharge me so soon.

But now, as I balance precariously on crutches that I am going to need for quite some time to support my injured leg, I wish fleetingly to be back in that uncomfortably hard bed surrounded by people whose only apparent purpose in life was to get me well again.

Post operative depression my Doctor's mind supplies helpfully, but I know that isn't really the truth.

I'm depressed, sure, but not because of the injury. I'm depressed because Mulder isn't here. And I find myself needing him at this moment more than I have ever done since the day we met.

Why can't he see that?

Does he really believe that by staying away he will achieve anything?

I shake my head in an effort to just stop torturing myself like this. I promised myself I wasn't going to think about it anymore.

 

I'm tired and I need to let myself escape from all this, if only for a few hours. Briefly I consider the door that leads to my bedroom because the thought of sinking in to my own bed is tempting to say the least. But my leg hurts and the few feet that separate me from its entrance might as well be miles.

So, instead I opt for the couch.

It's not easy to find a comfortable position, but this is one of the few times in my life when my small stature is a definite advantage and I am finally able to ease my aching leg to rest before me along the full length of the cushioned surface.

It's not ideal, but it will suffice for now. Hopefully, if I can grab a couple of hours of sleep, I will be able to summon up the energy to eat, or read or watch TV; do something, anything other than wallow in this pit of self-recrimination that I have dug for myself.

My head is pounding and a sudden draught of cold air makes me shiver slightly despite myself. I briefly consider reaching up to grab the soft woollen blanket I leave draped permanently over the back of the couch, but even that small action seems too much like hard work right now. So, instead, I cross my arms against my chest for warmth and close my eyes.

Later though, when I awaken, I am covered in a soft, sweet smelling familiar warmth and I feel the edge of the blanket tickling my chin pleasantly, making me rejoice, because without even opening my eyes I know. No one else covers me with blankets whilst I am sleeping.

He's here

Continued chapter five


	5. Part 1 chapter 5

PART ONE

CHAPTER FIVE

 

The apartment is shaded with that peculiar half-light that signifies the beginning of night. Not dark exactly, because even though there are no lights lit, I have no trouble in making out Mulders form, stretched out on the chair opposite me. Nevertheless, the shadows are enough to make me squint slightly to better focus on him.

His arms hang over the sides of the chair and relaxed as he is in sleep, he appears even more handsome to me than he usually does. Mulder is a good-looking man - not in the traditional sense maybe - but I have always enjoyed looking at him.

I used to think that if I were to dissect his features piece by piece, I would find plenty of faults. His nose is a little too big, his lips slightly too full to belong to a man, he has a high forehead, geeky ears. But put back all together they lend a certain quality to Mulder that cannot be found in most others.

And right now, unlike during his waking hours, his face is not marred by lines and tension. He reminds me of when we first met. Before we embarked on a journey that has in ways I cannot fully comprehend, shattered our lives; way back before all this, when he could bestow on me the gift of a smile that seemed to radiate from his very soul.

It's a memory of a Mulder I have almost forgotten existed.

A Mulder I miss with all my heart.

My leg has cramped during my extended nap and I know that I am going to have to shift position sooner rather than later in order to ease it.

But not yet, because I know that as soon as I do, Mulders senses will alert him to the sound and he will awaken.

I don't want that.

Just for a minute, I want to do what I am unable to do when he is awake.

I want to look at him.

I want to drink in the goodness of him.

Because when he wakes up I am going to do some straight talking for once. We are going to do some straight talking.

But, for now, I just watch the lengthening shadows of dusk creep up to darken his face, enjoying, despite the difficulties that are sure to come as soon as he opens his eyes, this unguarded view of him.

The pain in my leg though is beginning to worsen. Escalating rapidly from an ache to all out agony and I know that if I don't seek to ease it soon, I will pay for my reluctance later.

So, gingerly, I brace myself on my elbow and shuffle awkwardly up the couch until I am at an angle where I am able to ease my injured leg to rest on the floor. I try to achieve the manoeuvre as quietly as I possibly can, but my movements are hampered by stiffness and that, coupled with the fact that I am biting my lip from the pain, takes away much of my habitual grace.

I quickly flick my eyes to rest on Mulder, holding my breath as I do so, hoping against hope that my small movement hasn't woken him.

But I should know better by now.

Watching him awaken is always a painful experience because, while normal people drift gently out of the arms of sleep in degrees, allowing them the luxury of a minute of delicious slumber before opening their eyes to face the day ahead, Mulder literally throws himself awake.

I wonder if it has always been this way for him and certainly, I have soothed him through enough nightmares to know that sleep doesn't come easily for this man. But I hold on to the hope that one day in the future, he will be allowed to enjoy the kind of restful, healing slumber others take for granted.

As always, there is a momentary flash of fear on his face before he quickly evaluates his situation, assuring himself that everything is indeed normal. That whatever monsters plague him during dreams have not followed him back through his subconscious and in to the real world.

Monsters.

It's funny in a strange way because I never used to believe in monsters. Even as I child I was never unduly troubled by the Boogyman who, Bill assured me, resided beneath my bed.

Now though I know from bitter experience that monsters come in many forms.

And the most frightening are the ones we don't see.

But, as always, his fear passes quickly and I am heartened by the tentative smile that tugs at the corners of Mulders beautiful mouth, transforming his features and slicing ten years off him in one simple stroke.

"I let myself in." He supplies, stating the obvious, since, to my knowledge, for all his talents Mulder has not yet mastered the art of walking through walls.

"I knocked twice and when you didn't answer I got worried. You were sleeping."

He sounds vaguely apologetic, as though he has done me a terrible wrong by being concerned. That I would have preferred it if he'd simply turned on his heel and walked away without a second thought.

But he wouldn't have been Mulder if he'd done that.

The Mulder I know would have ripped that door apart with his bare hands if he had felt I needed him.

He's done it before.

It's one of the reasons I eventually got around to giving him a key.

"It's ok." I hear myself saying the words, but my voice sounds far away. Even to me.

"I'm glad you're here. I...."

I stumble then, unsure of how to proceed because he is gazing at me with such understanding, such yearning that it takes my breath away. I need to say the right things to him tonight. Because I know that if I fail, I might never get another chance.

He misunderstands though, because he is on his feet in a second.

"You're in pain."

I nod dumbly, refusing to contradict him on this particular point. And in all honesty, I'm grateful for the time to gather my thoughts as Mulder heads for the kitchen to bring me water. He's back within seconds, having discovered the analgesics that my Mom thoughtfully placed on the kitchen table before she left. Placing two of the pills in my palm, Mulder hands me the glass before he sits back down. He scrutinizes me carefully as I put them in my mouth, ensuring that I actually take them. Mulder hates to see me in pain.

Finally, after setting the glass down, I am able to carry on.

"I've been calling you. I wondered where you were. I've missed you Mulder."

There.

I've said it.

I missed you.

It's not something I've ever really considered before now. Whenever we've been separated, I have buried any feelings I might have had beneath the layers of self-deception that cloak my emotions. To admit to myself or to him that when we are apart I feel as though half of me is missing, would be to admit my true feelings.

Feelings I have tried so damn hard to keep hidden from him.

He shifts slightly in the chair and just by seeing the shadowed expression that crosses his face I know he is surprised by my words.

Surprised by my need.

But I have spent hours and hours this past week trying to get things straight in my head; thinking harder than I have ever conceived possible.

I accepted a long time ago that our relationship could never be categorized in the traditional sense, that what binds us together cannot be explained in simple terms.

He is not merely my partner; much more than that he is also my friend, my protector, my lover.

These words do not come close to describing what we share. Our relationship is none of these things, but at the same time it is all of them.

Because Fox Mulder has become my lover in every sense of the word and the fact that we have never had sex is irrelevant. I belong to him in much the same way he belongs to me, to the exclusion of all others.

We might not share a physical relationship as such, but despite this, our hearts and minds have become intertwined in a way that transcends mere sexual intimacy.

We became lovers a long time ago. Just not on a level others could even hope to understand.

I shiver slightly, suddenly aware of the chill in the room and I wonder if Mulder feels it too.

As if he can read my mind, he rises slowly from his position opposite me and pads across the carpeted floor until he is standing above me.

For just a second, I find his proximity slightly unnerving because he seems so much taller than usual, blocking out what little light is left in the room. But then he crouches before me, resting one hand lightly on my exposed arm while the other hand reaches up to gently caress my cheek. I close my eyes, enjoying the light pressure as his thumb traces a line across my face and down my neck before finally coming to rest on my shoulder which he squeezes gently.

"Cold?"

I shrug slightly, careful not to dislodge his hand which is warming me through the thin cotton sweater I am wearing.

"A little." I admit quietly.

In response to my words he reaches for the discarded blanket with his free hand and uses the pressure on my shoulder to gently draw me forwards, bringing the blanket around my back as I do so. He pulls its edges together so that it now cocoons me.

He is only inches away from me now and our faces are so close I can actually feel the warm puffs of air on my skin as he breathes. For some reason, this close proximity makes my heart flutter painfully against my chest, which is ridiculous really, since we have been as close as this on countless occasions. But maybe it has more to do with the way he is looking at me.

Sorrow, respect, concern; and something else, something that for all my understanding of this complex man, I can't quite seem to put my finger on.

He looks tired, used up. And not for the first time I wonder just where he's been for the past eight days.

And although something tells me that he wasn't simply on leave as Skinner suggested, I'm almost afraid to question further. Because my every instinct screams out to me that I am better off not knowing. So, instead I just stare back at him, drinking in his goodness, inhaling his scent as he hovers before me.

"Why didn't you tell me Scully?"

There is such defeat in his tone and hearing him this way causes my heart to almost crack in two.

Why didn't I tell him?

How can I put in to words something I barely understand myself?

How do I make him see that I chose not to tell him for all the reasons that seemed so right at the time? Reasons I have since discovered were so wrong even though I knew that knowing will eat him up inside.

Mulder has spent his adult life carrying the collective guilt of the world on his shoulders. It is mostly unfounded and I have watched it almost consume him during the seven years I have known him; guilt over his Sister, his Father's death, Melissa's death, my cancer.

My life.

A life he sees himself as being solely responsible for destroying.

But he isn't responsible.

We make our own choices and I made mine long ago. My choice was to stay with him because dying alongside him was always preferable to living in a world without him.

He is waiting for an answer from me. Waiting patiently as I attempt to gather my thoughts together enough to put in to words all the things I feel in my heart.

And this time I will succeed. I'll do it for him.

I can't look at him though. So I drop my eyes from his before taking a deep breath and when I finally speak, my voice is so low it is almost inaudible.

"I didn't tell you because I'm not strong enough to watch you destroy yourself for a second time; because I'm tired, so tired of seeing you hurting and not being able to make it go away."

His fingers tighten painfully on my shoulder for a second as my admission sinks in, but I ignore it.

"I'm just so tired of it all Mulder. Of the pain and the betrayal and the hurt, but I should have told you, I know that now and I’m so sorry because I got it so wrong..... I know now that I've never...."

I feel the familiar tightness in my throat as it closes up; my eyes burning as a week of unshed tears threaten to steal my words from me. But despite this, I swallow and force myself to carry on, raising my head to look at him. Giving myself the courage I need to finish what I have started.

"I've never been so wrong about anything in my life. I thought I was protecting you, when all the time I was just trying to protect myself. And I hate myself for it...."

I stop then. Unable to carry on as my chest hitches painfully as, suddenly I am crying.

Shit

I promised myself I wouldn't do this.

So much for promises.

I don't want him to see me cry. Not like this. I wanted so much to be strong for him and I realize I have failed once again. Squeezing my eyes shut as I turn away from him.

Just as I've turned away from him so many times before.

This time it's different though. Because this time he refuses to allow me to hide and before I have time to comprehend what is happening, Mulder is on the sofa beside me, intercepting my movement and pulling me roughly towards him, holding me so tightly I can feel his heart beating through the layers of clothing that separate us.

He buries his face in my hair and I feel him shaking as he finally breaks down, crushing me against him as though he is afraid that at any moment I will fly away. That by holding on to me he will somehow keep me safe.

This knowledge shatters me even more because I know with absolute certainty that this time it won't matter how hard he fights or how much he loves me.

This time there can be only one outcome.

So I cry for everything that has been taken from us.

For all the things we will never have.

For all our hopes and dreams that will end before they have even begun to be realized. For a chance at true happiness most others take for granted; because we can only ever expect pain, so much fucking pain to be borne by two people. 

But mainly I am crying because I know that my pain, compared to Mulders, will be brief.

His will last a lifetime; if he manages to survive that long.

Continued chapter six


	6. Part 1 chapter 6 & epilogue

PART ONE

CHAPTER 6 & EPILOGUE

 

We stay in each other’s arms for a long time; holding on to each other as if for life itself and while in the past we've been close before, something feels different.

Because this time, I feel as though I am one with him, as though our hearts and minds have succumbed to all that has gone before, enduring many painful separations until finally we have reached this point.

I am aware of nothing, and yet my every sense is awakened by the feel of him against me

His every movement, his every breath magnified in my consciousness a thousand times until his presence succeeds in enveloping me completely.

He is my blanket, my protection from the bitter chill and biting winds of life. And I allow myself to sink in to this protective warmth, allowing myself, maybe for the first time, to really feel him.

This is where I am supposed to be. I think I've always known that. I've just never allowed myself to admit it before now. But while I'm not sure where we go from here, I am sure of one thing.

That this feels right.

And I draw a small measure of comfort from the thought that through all the misery and the hurting and the loss and the pain, we have at least finally reached the place we are in now.

I can't help but wonder what he is thinking though; is he holding me like this out of a sense of friendship, out of a sense of duty, in deference to all we have shared? Will he yet pull away from me?

We've come so close before, so close to breaking down the barriers that separate us. But something has always held us back.

Held me back.

Maybe it is the feel of his hands in my hair, caressing gently as I sob in his arms that allows me to remember all the times I have turned away from him. Not willing to take what he offered. But, like my life flashing before my eyes, every kiss, every caress, every teasing moment we have ever shared takes on a whole new meaning.

Why did I never see it before?

Why am I only being allowed to fully understand what he means to me now that it is too late?

Is it retribution for all my past indiscretions? To be offered a glimpse of all that might have been only to have it torn away from me before I have had a chance to even fully understand it?

My headache miraculously has diminished, and I can almost imagine it's not there at all, but the fact remains that I am dying. Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, I am dying in degrees.

Every second that passes means the time I will have to say good bye to him is getting closer.

Not enough time.

There could never be time enough for me to say to him all that I need to say.

So many wasted years.

And now it's too late.

I know this man, possibly better than he knows himself. We have walked side by side through every imaginable horror, drawing strength from each other when everything has seemed hopeless, when the dark has threatened to envelop us; he has always been there for me, allowing me to make it safely through to the other side.

 

And while I have never really voiced it, I know it to be true.  
Because I know him, just as he knows me.

The room has grown dark now, and only the soft glow of the street lamps outside prevents the inky blackness of night from consuming us completely, but still we don't move.

My tears have begun to dry, tickling my face as my skin tightens beneath them, but still we remain, locked together, two lost souls who have begun to find their way home, drawing comfort from each other in an attempt to face the journey ahead.

I keep my eyes closed, enjoying the feel of him against me.

Enjoying the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me, the pressure of his chin as it nuzzles the crown of my head, breathing me in, allowing our bodies to relax against each other.

We don't need words right now.

Nothing we could say to each other could ever hope to add to this moment.

And I am conscious of my tears, once again spilling from the confines of my closed lids as stark realization forces it upon me.

How can I leave him to make the journey alone?

How will he find his way without me by his side?

He once called me his touchstone, his guiding light, his constant. I thought I understood his sentiments when he whispered those words to me not so very long ago. But now I know, when he allowed himself to admit them he was opening his heart to me.

But every heart can be broken. Shattered in to a million pieces by our own frailties, we carry on through life trying in vain to put them back together, to repair a hurt so great that we forget about those around us who are hurting too.

And right now Mulder is hurting.

I feel it in his every breath, and more than anything, I want to take that hurt away from him, if only for a short while.

I want him to be whole again.

I know how to achieve it too. And in a world that has become so complicated for both of us, the simplicity is such that it prompts a physical ache deep inside me.

It's so quiet now, as though the world has ceased to exist around us, leaving us alone to enjoy this newfound closeness, to listen to the sound of our hearts beating as one.

This is our time; No distractions, no sounds to take us away from this moment. It is as though we are the only two people left on Earth.

I am aware of him as I have never before been because he is the only thing that matters to me now.

And although a small voice inside of me is urging me to think about where this might be heading, I refuse to acknowledge it. Because deep down I know it is time. It is time for me to finally answer the burning need that has festered inside of me for so many years. To take the final step towards the barrier that has separated us for so long, to admit to him and myself the very thing we have worked so hard at denying.

I need this.

And although he would never admit it, Mulder needs it too.

No more games. No more teasing innuendo, this is real. It might be the only thing left to us that is.

Slowly, I draw my face away from where it rests against his shoulder, and as I do so, Mulder drops his eyes to meet mine. Even in the darkness, I can see the delicate golden flecks within them.

How many times have I looked in to the myriad emotions swirling within the depths of those chameleon eyes and refused to really see?

But tonight I feel a million questions burning in my heart, voices inside my head clamouring to be heard at last.

And slowly, so slowly, I lightly trace my fingers across his shoulders, my touch so light I can barely feel him, never allowing my gaze to waver as I finally cup his beautiful face between the palms of my hands.

"Scully?"

 

He makes no attempt to escape my caress, although I see something in his expression subtly alter as he voices that single word that speaks directly to my heart, brows dipping slightly in confusion.

He is scared, I see it plainly in his eyes, scared of what I am about to do, of the barriers I am demolishing piece by painful piece, barriers that he has hidden behind all his life. But nonetheless, he remains in front of me, as though frozen in time, watching me watching him.

My heart is beating painfully, and deep down within myself I feel a fluttering against my ribcage, as though a thousand butterflies are seeking escape.

How long has it been since I've drawn a breath? I'm not sure at this moment whether I will ever be able to breathe again.

I have never felt so connected to anyone in my life; a closeness that transcends the mere physical, something so intrinsically wonderful that I wish with all my heart that I could stay in this place for all eternity.

I draw him towards me, gently coaxing him with the touch of my fingers against his face, reassuring him with both my voice and with my hands.

"Sshhh it’s okay."

And finally, as though in a dream, I bring my lips to his, closing my eyes to better savour the sheer beauty of this moment, feeling Mulder shudder against me as he brings his arms around me, encircling me so completely I feel I could drown in him.

Even as I taste him fully for the first time, I can't help remembering that last chaste kiss we shared; watching the rest of the world celebrating a new beginning, oblivious to the horrors that might even now lay before them.

Mulder and I hadn't celebrated. We were simply glad to be alive.

This is different though, because this is real.

 

This time we allow ourselves to feel each other, to savour this moment, which even in the midst of such heartache, speaks of a new beginning, a new chapter in our lives.

We have both lost so much; almost too much to still be able to function in a world that has long been hardened to the hopes, dreams and desires of the people who inhabit it.

But if I've learned anything during my time with Mulder, it's that hopes and dreams go hand in hand.

That even if we don't always prevail in our search for retribution, it is the journey we take that is truly the most important thing.

My Father used to tell me that where there's life there's hope.

And as I feel Mulders tears mingling with my own as we sink deeper in to each other, I pray that he was right.

Because at this moment I realize that even in the midst of dying I am finally alive for the first time.

 

XXXXX

Epilogue

 

I came here tonight to talk to her, to tell her the truth.

And as I sat watching her sleep, I was sure that the decision I had made was the right one.

The only one.

Or at least the only one that made any sense to me.

I'm not sure how long she slept, or which place or time she visited in her dreams, or what prompted her to call out my name with such yearning it almost tore me apart.

I had expected her to awaken, but she had merely groaned softly and shifted position slightly, unconsciously hugging the soft woollen blanket I had tucked around her, tighter to her chest.

Maybe it was a nightmare.

But then again, if I was in it, could it have been anything less?

And now, hours later, she is once again sleeping. Nestled against me like an over-sized kitten, head resting against my chest she is stretched out full length on the sofa.

Full length and still she doesn't come close to filling the space.

I try not to think of Scully as anything less than an equal, but right now, she seems tiny, fragile china that will shatter with too much rough handling. But appearances are deceptive, and inside this extraordinary woman is a network of steel and fire unlike anything I have ever experienced before.

She is strong, far stronger than I could ever hope to be.

I came here tonight expecting an all out verbal assault from her full of questions, anger, and frustration that I had ditched her yet again.

And if she had remained true to her previous form, had battered me with her demands for explanation, I have no doubts that I would have kept my promises to myself and told her everything.

But she didn't ask.

Once again, Scully had gazed at me with her incredible eyes and forgiven me.

Just as she's forgiven me in the past.

But still, I could have told her.

Would have told her

Even as I held her in my arms my mind was formulating a thousand different openings. Searching for ways to find a way to admit to her what I have done; to make her understand the reasons why I had to do it.

The memory of that day in the ER is still fresh in my mind, an open wound that refuses to heal, oozing a nauseating combination of guilt, betrayal and horror.

She lied to me.

I trust her more than anyone in the world, and yet she didn't trust me enough to tell me.

My first instinct had been to run. I'm skilled in the art of denial. I've spent my whole life denying my very existence, hiding behind thinly veiled lies so as to protect myself from what was really important to me. Building walls so impenetrable that I had almost forgotten they existed.

Until that miraculous day when she walked in to my life.

I still hide sure, but now I know what's important and what isn't.

And that's why I have done what I've done. To preserve what is most important to me; to allow a light to keep burning brightly in a world full of darkness.

Dana Scully.

My guiding light.

I can still feel the touch of her lips against mine, the feel of her teeth nipping gently on my lower lip as our kisses deepened, breaths mingling, becoming one. A combination of softness and steel as she kissed me, tentatively at first, almost shyly , and then with a mounting sense of urgency, a promise of things to come, that this was merely a prelude.

And she has changed me forever.

In that instant, as the ground beneath us shifted subtly, placing us on a level I never before knew existed, I knew that whatever happens in the future, she must never know what I have done. She will never forgive herself if she knows.

Because I have made a deal with the Devil for Scully's life.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth the bible tells us. But this goes so much deeper. Deeper than anything mortal men can control.

Gently I bring one of my hands from where it rests against her shoulder and bring it up to gingerly touch the small ridge of puckered flesh at the nape of my neck. The scar is still fresh, but tiny enough to be almost unnoticeable beneath my hair. I insisted upon it.

But despite its size, it burns beneath my fingers, a constant reminder of what I have done. 

A final gamble.

No going back.

No second chances.

To save Scully’s life I will one day relinquish control of my own.

It seems like a fair trade.

CONTINUED IN PART TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of this story was written and finished in 2001 and although I always intended for it to be a multi-part story I just never went back to it. This year, I finally wrote parts 2,3 and 4   
> It holds a very special place in my heart and was 15 years in the making. I hope you enjoy it. The next 3 parts will follow on from this posting and I aim to have it all up within the next couple of days.


	7. Part 2 chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Scully gets sicker Mulders faith begins to wane.

PART TWO

CHAPTER ONE

.

The nosebleed when it came, was an unwelcome shock and for the first time, I was forced to acknowledge, really acknowledge that I’ve been a fool. 

That I’ve been lied to.

So desperate was I on hearing that Scully’s cancer was back that I didn’t once stop to think that he would lie to me. I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. That after all these years of him wanting to own me, that his intentions would be anything but disingenuous was a scant hope at best but nonetheless it has been a hope I have clung on to. 

But today that hope has been shattered in to pieces and scattered like fallen leaves around me.

It’s almost three months since that morning where my partner was felled by that single bullet, a bullet that damaged far more than simple flesh and bone as it paved the way for a truth to be heard that she had desperately tried to hide from me for weeks and weeks. Even now, months later, the hurt is still there, burning inside me, corroding me even as I try to reconcile it. But knowing the reasons why she didn’t tell me doesn’t make the fact that she didn’t any easier to bear. 

And I know she feels it to.

But we don’t talk about it. To keep dragging it to the fore is just too painful for both of us and, if I’m honest, wholly unfair on Scully as she tries once again to battle the demon that has taken up residence inside her. A demon that will continue to overwhelm her even as she fights against it with every ounce of spirit she has in that compact little body of hers.

She has good days and bad days. And in the beginning, the good days outweighed the bad by about two to one. Her headaches, although painful and debilitating, could be kept controlled with non opiate pills. Providing she kept up a pain management regime, for the most part, she did okay and when the pain got bad she stuck her chin out with the resolute stubbornness I know so well and despite everything, she carried on. She looked the same to me as she always had. A little thinner maybe as the pain medication suppressed her appetite for certain foods and made her stomach hurt, but for the most part she remained the same. No chemo means no sickness means no drastic weight loss. It also means of course that I am losing her. That day by day, she is slipping a little further away from me. 

Her Mother has tried everything to persuade her daughter to start treatment again. And I think she still believes that it was the treatment that saved her the last time around. But Scully has resolutely refused to be swayed and on the surface at least, has remained hardened to Maggie’s frequent tearful and occasionally, accusatory outbursts. But on more than one occasion I have had to hold Scully in my arms to prevent her from sinking to the ground after her Mom has taken leave of the apartment, slamming the door behind her in impotent anger that her only daughter seemingly doesn’t care enough to even try to help herself.

It’s the only time she really allows herself to cry. Or at least it’s the only time she allows me to see it. The knowledge of what her decisions are doing to the woman she loves and respects so much continue to break her a little more every time one of the conversations takes place. And I know she despises herself for it.

She also refuses steadfastly to see her brothers. 

And the most selfish part of me is relieved that I don’t have to face them again. To be held in contempt for my part in all this is something I’m not entirely sure either Scully or I could cope with right now. Our hurt is big enough without it being added to by virtual strangers who are happy to stand in judgement over decisions and events they are neither willing nor open enough to understand.

Maybe when this is all over, when Scully is gone, they might seek to understand. Understand a chain of events that started so many years ago when this extraordinary woman walked in to my office and took over my life.

*Agent Mulder? Dana Scully; I’ve heard a lot about you.*

So young back then. So vibrant. So damn trusting. Not yet tainted by her association with me, with everything she has lost along the way. 

But I’ve tried not to think about how things were in the beginning, tried not to wish myself back seven years ago so I could turn her around and march her straight out of that office and back to the safety of Quantico. Away from me; away from this quest of mine that, over time crept up on her insidiously to also make it hers. She didn’t deserve it. She’s never deserved it. But she took it. She chose to stay and I have to respect that it was her choice to make.

So instead, I’ve pushed it to the back of my mind and tried desperately to focus my mind on what we have now rather than what has been taken from us and what else will soon be taken.

I no longer believe that the chip in my neck is anything more than a cruel deception by a sick man. 

And I certainly don’t believe that he ever had intention of saving Scully.

A sick fucking joke taken at our expense; a final act of betrayal from a man who trades in lies. 

Today is Scully’s Birthday. A day where she had insisted no fuss be made. She’s done the final Birthday crap before and made it abundantly clear that she has no wish to repeat the experience. Because as much as I try to deny it to myself, I know that she will not be around next year. And that she knows it to.

But despite that, I couldn’t let the day pass by totally unacknowledged and even though I guess you could say we have been a couple for several months now, the giving of elaborate gifts and platitudes are not really our style. I’m also painfully reminded that I too was guilty of participating in the illusion last time around, that everything was just fine. My partner’s Birthday. Dinner and a gift. Which was all great had I bothered to acknowledge it in previous years. 

And although she had playfully teased me about it at the time, I know that she knew damn well that it was my way of starting to say goodbye.

I was determined not to fall in to that same trap so this year I kept everything very low key. No sparklers, no gift, no fanfare.

Instead I took her to feed the swans in Rivergate Park. And then we walked through the frosted leaves, hands clasped tightly together, not speaking much, knowing that there was nothing really to say. No declaration of love from this woman could ever make her mean more to me that she already does and I know she feels the same. I see it in her eyes, feel it in her touch, the way she clutches at me when we make love. It’s in the way she says my name; the way she presses herself against me when it rains and we only have one umbrella. It’s in the way she asks the pizza place to only sprinkle mushrooms on her half and the way she laughs at me when I get stringy cheese caught on my chin.

She loves me in ways I didn’t think were possible. 

And that’s why I took her to feed the swans. Because we no longer need affirmation of what we are to each other; material gifts are meaningless now.

We walked for a long time, along the beautiful rustling path that circumnavigates the lake, pausing sometimes to rest, exchanging soft touches, feather-light kisses under the canopy of winter green foliage that makes the perfect foil for Scully’s delicate colouring. Her leg still bothers her a little although she can now walk normally and bear weight without grimacing. I was amazed how quickly she recovered given the circumstances and the irony wasn’t lost on either of us when her Orthopaedic surgeon signed her off with an assurance her leg was as good as new. That it would give her years of stellar service. 

I had wanted to punch a fist-sized hole in the wall beside his head but Scully had simply bestowed him with a dazzling smile, shook his hand and thanked him for everything he had done. Until later in the car she had turned her face away from me in an attempt to hide the single tear that escaped to form a tiny rivulet down her beautiful skin. I had watched it hang, suspended for the merest moment before it fell on to the collar of her shirt. And right then, I had wanted to scream at the fucking injustice of it all.

Why her? Why her and not me?

It’s a question that haunts me. It’s the reason I did what I did. The reason I allowed that black-lunged sick bastard to finally get what he wanted. The reason I allowed myself to believe.

But that belief is waning. With each passing day as I watch my beautiful partner fade just a tiny bit more, watch her trying to hide her headache behind a troubled smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, watch as it’s becoming obvious that the bad days are starting to outweigh the good.

And today, as I heard her gasp, watched her hands fly to her face in an attempt to stem the sudden rush of blood that literally poured from her nose, drenching her in a frightening sea of crimson that dripped unchecked on to the crisp, dead leaves beneath our feet, I stopped believing altogether.

My belief was ripped away from me even as I caught her in my arms and screamed out to someone, anyone, to call 911, feeling the warmth of her blood, her life-force, soaking in to my thick fleece shirt as I ran with her back to the small car park where, by the time I got there, I was unable to breathe through the fear and exertion and yet still I clung on to her as the waiting paramedics tried to prise her from my arms.

So much blood.

So much fucking blood I truly thought she was dead.

And now as I sit outside her room in the ICU, banished to the corridor while the doctors do their work I begin to cry. Wracking sobs that tear at my chest and threaten to break me in two. I am holding on to her cross that the doctors insisted was removed lest she require CPR and I twist it around my fingers in much the same way Scully twisted that piece of cotton around her finger three months ago when I sought answers from her. She should be wearing it. It’s not right that they took it from her. I will return it to her later. And I hang on to that thought because it’s all I have.

Happy Birthday Scully.

Continued chapter 2


	8. Part 2 chapter 2

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWO

 

Scully is sleeping. Not dead, not comatose, not even mildly sedated. And aside from the IVs that snake their way in to her pale skin and the steady beep-beep of the monitors beside her bed, I can almost, almost convince myself that she is going to be fine.

Although, in the short term at least her doctors have assured me that she will be fine. She lost a tremendous amount of blood but missed vacogenic shock by a whisker, and will suffer no immediate ill effects except for increased fatigue for a few days as her battered system regains its equilibrium. I found myself staring blankly at the young intern who had been despatched to speak to me out in the corridor where I had sat looking at my feet for what seemed like an eternity. He congratulated me on my fast response to the situation; that even ten minutes more and the outcome might have been very different. I had no idea how to respond to him, still dressed as I was in Scully’s blood which had dried and hardened against my skin. I could smell it. I think I will probably smell it for a very long time to come. Was I supposed to shake his hand?, to thank him for not letting her die?

I didn’t do either of those things. I just clutched Scully’s necklace in my hand and gazed at him numbly from my seated position; hearing his words but hardly daring to believe them.

“She’s okay?” I’d finally managed through lips that seemed to belong to someone else. Lips that only the night before had been playfully kissing a line along the inside of Scully’s arm as she half heartedly attempted to slap me away. She is incredibly ticklish on the underside of her arms. In fact she is incredibly ticklish all over and she giggles when I kiss her like that. So I kiss her like that as often as I can. If you’d told me even six months ago that Scully was a giggler I would have refused to believe it. But to my delight it turns out that my serious, scientifically minded, straight-laced sceptical partner of seven years can be reduced to a giggling, weakened mess with only minimum effort on my part. 

The intern touches my shoulder gently. Under normal circumstances I would probably feel a little awkward, but right now I am grateful for the connection of another human being.

“She’s okay” he affirms although he stresses that she is weak and tired and may sleep a lot over the next couple of days.

I’ll take that. God knows I’ll take it. She can sleep till next week if it means she will come back to me. And it seems like this time at least, she will.

“Can I see her? Sit with her?”

The intern hesitates for just a beat and I ready myself to start arguing. The need to see her is like a physical ache inside of me and not for the first time I wonder how it will feel when one day, that ache will go unchecked and unresolved. I think to be honest that my world will simply cease to be; that my heart will stop beating with the pain of it all. Or at least I hope that it happens that way because a life without Scully isn’t a life worth living. I’m not sure I would even want to try.

But as it turns out, I’ve misunderstood the reasons for his reluctance to allow me in to the room. 

“I think maybe first Agent Mulder, we should find you a change of clothes. Let you clean up a bit?”

I smell of Scullys blood.

I nod. 

“Thank you”

XXXX

 

I haven’t taken my eyes off her for even a second since I finally made it in here. I settled myself in to the uncomfortable chair that stood like a sentry beside her bed, gently curled my fingers around hers and just watched her sleep. She looks incredibly pale in the diffused light that casts shadows across her face but I find myself heartened that she is sleeping so peacefully. I’m not sure how aware she was of the horror show that unfolded beside that tranquil lake, or how long she stayed conscious before the shock of the sudden and violent blood loss sent her system in to freefall. Certainly she was unconscious by the time we made it back to the car park, a dead boneless weight in my arms as the blood continued to flow and I can’t help but hope that for the most part she remained unaware.

She has moved a couple of times; sighing softly before settling back in to sleep and I don’t really expect her to awaken at all tonight. Even when nurses have crept quietly in to record her vitals, she hasn’t stirred. And while I know that sleep is what she needs right now, on a very basic level, I wish she would open her eyes just for a moment so I can affirm that she is really here. That she is simply sleeping and not somewhere else far away from me. 

But for the time being I just watch her. I can never get enough of looking at Scully and if she had known just how much I had enjoyed observing her during those early years in our partnership, she would probably have been horrified. 

Before she had come strutting in to my office in her ill fitting off- the- rack suit, all red hair and youthful arrogance I had always considered myself to have a type. All the previous women in my life had been tall, leggy, big breasted control freaks who had been firmly in command of the relationship. Without exception they had all been older than me, without exception they had all been brunettes and without exception they had all treated me with a certain amount of casual disdain. I think I’d have been considered a catch if it weren’t for the Spooky. As it was I was merely a passing fad. To be picked up and thrown away when the novelty began to wear off.

I had expected the pattern to carry on repeating in the same manner until I finally accepted that love, or even a lasting companionship, was not going to feature heavily in my future. I’ve wondered often why I gravitated again and again to these kinds of women, unable to explain it in any real way other than a lingering feeling of unworthiness; that my past had made me somehow lacking and that happiness was for others but never for me.

Scully changed all that. And despite all my best efforts to the contrary I allowed her to get under my skin. This fiery redhead with a temper to match who never gave me an inch, a constant source of irritation who tested the boundaries in every way possible during the early months of our partnership with her infuriating knack of finding a rational explanation for everything. I mean hell, how do you hope to argue with a woman who has enough arrogance and self-belief to re-write fucking Einstein? She tested me every single day as she steadfastly refused to blindly believe; becoming the perfect juxtaposition; the Yin to my Yang. And with it she brought something to me I’d thought I’d lost forever – a feeling of worth. That maybe, just maybe, there was something within me that was actually worth fighting for.

And even back then I loved her; I loved her with an intensity that excluded all rational thought. From almost the very beginning I loved her. I loved her for believing in me; for refusing to be played by those who had sent her to me and for never allowing them to break her spirit. And almost immediately I realised I wanted her to stay with me; that to lose her, even so early on was unthinkable.

I once told her that she made me whole; that she had saved me; desperate words that I could barely bring myself to admit to her, but I had admitted them. To prevent her from walking away I had allowed at least some of my barriers to fall away and she had rewarded me by remaining by my side. I often wonder now just how different her life would be if I’d simply let her leave; done the right thing for her even if not for me. But for now I swallow the thought and go back to watching her sleep.

Only she isn’t sleeping.

She is observing me through eyes that are heavy-lidded and dull with a combination of fatigue and the morphine drip that keeps her headache at bay. But despite this, she has never looked more beautiful to me; because she is alive and she is still with me.

“I guess I missed the Birthday cake huh?” her voice is raspy and sweet and just slightly teasing, belying as always the gravity of her situation. And as always I play along, leaning forwards to drop a kiss on her forehead which I’m relieved to find is cool beneath my lips before inclining my face to whisper in her ear.

“Yeah. It had candles and everything.”

“How many candles?”

I smile.

“Lots of candles Scully. Lots and lots of candles.”

 

She leans in to my face and I can smell the jasmine scent of the shampoo she favours. Her skin though smells like hospitals; a combination of starch, antiseptic and a peculiar slightly unpleasant scent that reminds me of illness. 

“Mulder?” she murmurs “Have you ever thought about becoming a nurse?”

“Only in my wildest dreams Scully. Why?”

She sighs, fighting sleep as she fights everything else in her life.

“You look.....mmmmm.....the scrubs. Look good...”

Her voice is slightly slurred and I graze her temple with my lips.

“I’ll wear them for you when we get home. Now go back to sleep.”

And for once she does as I say, closing her eyes even as she reaches out to me, an unspoken request that I immediately understand. I perch awkwardly on the bed and enfold her in my arms, resting my chin lightly on the crown of her head, listening to the sound of her breathing become sweet and even as she falls once more in to sleep. I don’t move until morning.

Continued chapter three.


	9. Part 2 chapter 3

PART TWO

CHAPTER THREE

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call your Mom?”

I’m trying to understand Scully’s reluctance to involve her Mother; I’m aware that the knowledge of her collapse yesterday will just seek to fuel another emotional outburst from Maggie, but even so, it just doesn’t sit right with me. But then it’s not my fight so I’m not sure I have a right to even hold an opinion, much less pass judgement over Scully’s decisions in this regard. To have to watch her losing control of her body is heart wrenching to me and I suppose she should be permitted to decide just how much of her gradual decline she wishes to share with her Mom.

But I still can’t help the guilt that gnaws at me that I am at least in part, a willing conspirator against a woman who has shown me more kindness and the past than I believe I deserve.

But Scully sets her mouth in a straight line, shaking her head and looking all the word like a small, determined child.

“No. I mean it Mulder. I’ll call her when I get home.”

When she will get home is still undetermined however. She’s had a pretty rough morning since she woke up. I hadn’t considered really just what the effects of swallowing so much blood yesterday would have on her and she’s been throwing up on and off for the past 3 hours or so despite a cocktail of anti sickness drugs added to her IV and she is clearly exhausted by this latest assault. Apparently the human digestive system - as Scully helpfully informed me - does not process large quantities of its own blood too well and vomiting in this circumstance is commonplace. It was something she apparently went through the last time around and something she never discussed with me. But then she didn’t really discuss much of anything with me back then and if I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure I had earned the right, intent as I was on seeking justice, and my partner, the woman I loved, the object of such heinous wrongdoing, somehow became secondary to my quest.

I’ve always been ashamed of my actions back then. I think I probably always will be and although I’ve never told her, I’m still haunted by the knowledge that I wasn’t there when she needed me the most. Yes, Scully is an intensely private person, but I was so blind back then that even if she’d expressed her need in neon letters two feet tall I doubt I would have been able to see past the ether of my obsession in order to react to it. And that’s why now, even though I had prayed that a resurgence of her cancer would never come, that I will be to her everything I wasn’t before.

I know I am going to have to leave her soon though, just for a while; because if she won’t allow me to involve anyone else, the most basic tasks need to be completed by me. Essential items, toiletries, a change of clothes, her robe....all fairly insignificant in the great scheme of things but items that will make her stay easier. I particularly know that she is desperate to clean her teeth. Scully is probably the most fastidious person I’ve ever met and I know that being unable to properly freshen up using her toothpaste and her brand of soap is pissing her off. She doesn’t need that on top of everything else. Not when it’s something that is so easily rectified.

I also need to grab a shower and a change of clothes because the scrubs, whilst pretty comfortable aren’t the most inconspicuous apparel to be wearing in a hospital and frankly I’m terrified that someone might mistake me for a member of the nursing staff and my duplicity will end up killing someone.

I’d said as much to Scully and was rewarded by the first genuine smile she had managed so far that day. And for a brief moment amidst the headache and the nausea and the fear, she was right back there with me.

“You’re an idiot Mulder”

I’d leaned in closer to her tickling her neck with my lips as I whispered in her ear so only she could hear me

“Admit it Scully, you just wanna play Doctors with me.”

And that earned me a swat on the arm.

Another small victory. But I would take it.

Shortly after that though she had closed her eyes and by the delicate furrows that marred her brow, I knew that the headache was back. She needed sleep and I’d suspected that it was something she was fighting against while I was still there with her. So I’d perched gently on the edge of the bed and taken her slim white hand in mine. I swear that her naturally pale skin tone had become virtually translucent since yesterday and my own hand seemed almost dark in comparison. And for some reason I can’t quite fathom, the sight of her hand engulfed in mine had tightened my throat as a sudden film of tears inexplicably gathered across my eyes and it took every single fucking reserve I had to not break down right there in front of her.

She noticed of course; I can’t hide anything from this woman and when I allow myself to really think about it, it humbles me that she has somehow managed to know me so completely. I am further humbled when she places her free hand against my cheek, holding it there for just a heartbeat.

“It’s okay” she whispers softly turning those incredible eyes on me that, just for a moment, radiate such compassion, such concern, that I want to gather her up and never let her go. To rain a thousand kisses down upon her body in an attempt to rid her of the hurt and the fear I know she is feeling.

“It’s okay Mulder. Go home for a while. I’ll be fine.”

She is tired. She needs to sleep.

So I simply nod and bring her hand to my mouth, kissing each finger softly before grazing my lips across her palm, tracing circles with my thumb across the satin soft skin and by the time I gently lay her arm across her chest, she has succumbed to her exhaustion and her eyes have fluttered closed. I allow myself the luxury of drinking in her image, the long chestnut eyelashes that sit in sharp contrast to her pale skin and despite the dark shadows under her eyes, to me, she is flawless. 

“I’ll be back soon” I whisper.

And the small contended sigh that escapes from her slightly parted lips tells me that she hears me even in her dreams.

 

XXXX

 

I had briefly considered walking back home but given the fact I was dressed like an escaped mental patient and clutching a transparent trash bag containing the blood soaked clothes from yesterday, I’d decided against it and had asked the helpful volunteer at the admin desk if they could call me a cab. Even then I braced myself for the driver’s reaction to his strange passenger, but as it transpired, the driver, when he arrived, turned out to be a her and in my experience, women seemed to much less phased about these kinds of things than their male counterparts. A short Hispanic woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Frohike, right down to the bushy eyebrows, didn’t bat an eyelid; she simply grabbed the bag from my hand, tossing it in to the backseat as she held the door open for me.

“Rough night?”

 

I laughed in spite of myself and rubbed the bridge of my nose.

“Yeah you could say that.”

She simply nodded and gestured that I should sit in the front next to her and I was grateful to not have to sit looking at Scully’s blood soaked clothing for the ten minute journey back to her apartment.

Once inside I gave her the address and leaned my head back against the seat, relaxing properly for the first time since that terrifying moment by the lake when Scully began to choke on her own blood. It happened less than 24 hours ago and yet seems like a lifetime. I am beginning to learn in the harshest way possible that nothing is constant where this disease is concerned. That in the blink of an eye everything changes. I hadn’t realised last time around just how much Scully had hidden from me and just how much she had coped with on her own. 

How many times had she been puking up undigested blood after a nose bleed and had then followed me on whatever case I had managed to conjure up to ensure she kept moving? So that she wouldn’t have either the time or energy to walk away from me? Because by trying to keep things normal, I could deny what was happening. Until that final night on the sweeping stairway of the American University.

*I can’t go with you Mulder*.

I hadn’t even asked her why. Oh I knew her refusal to join me was directly tied to her cancer. But I hadn’t asked because for my own selfish reasons I wasn’t able to acknowledge it. That she was dying. Some fucking partner I turned out to be.

“Hey Mister....you okay?”

I snap abruptly back to the present day and realise with a start that we have arrived. I’m not sure how because it only seems like a few seconds since we pulled away from the hospital and joined the throngs of traffic heading in to the capitol.

“You zonked out on me” Mrs Frohike supplies helpfully and I shake my head in apology.

“Like I said. Rough night. I’m sorry, how much?” I glance at the meter and notice that the digital display is blank and am more than a little surprised when I feel a set of stubby fingers tighten briefly on my arm. 

“Use it to buy your girl some flowers and tell her I said to get well soon.”

The kindness of a stranger.

And she called Scully ‘My girl’. 

I can’t speak suddenly. The lump that formed in my throat makes it impossible. So I settle for a shaky smile that I know doesn’t quite come off and, after grabbing the bag of soiled clothes from the back, I exit the car.

Conscious that time is ticking and I want, no, need to be back at the hospital before Scully wakes up, I head straight for the wide double doors that grace the front of the beautiful old building that Scully calls home. And I realise perhaps for the first time that it feels like home for me too. Three months. Three short months is all it’s taken. Maybe it’s time I had a discussion with Scully about moving the fish in.

The concept makes me smile, a smile that freezes on my face as the familiar voice assails my senses from behind. My reaction is sudden and violent as I spin around to face a man who has brought nothing but misery and destruction to everyone and everything he comes in to contact with. As always a noxious blue cloud surrounds him, the smoke curling insidiously around him as though cloaking him in death and he is smiling at me. He has the audacity to smile at me. The cigarette smoking son of a bitch who calls himself my father. I would rather have been spawned by the devil himself; but then again, maybe I was.

 

His eyes settle on the bag I am still clutching at my side and his smile widens. It’s almost fatherly, jovial even and that alone makes me want to shove the barrel of my gun in to his mouth and blow the back of his fucking head off. Maybe it’s a good thing that it’s sat safely locked away in the apartment where I left it yesterday before we left for the park. I hadn’t wanted to carry a gun whilst walking with Scully through the autumn leaves beneath our feet. I just hadn’t felt the need. 

“Did Agent Scully enjoy her Birthday gift?”

His oily unctuous voice reaches me somehow through the sudden white noise that seems to invade my every sense. And I recognise it as rage. Blind rage that he even has the audacity to speak her name. 

“What did you say?”

My voice is low, dangerous, Icy in its control. Scully would be proud. Because what I actually want to do right now is to rip his head from his fucking shoulders.

“Her Birthday gift Fox. The one we gave her.”

I shake my head in an effort to clear it, as a horrified realisation suddenly hits me like an out of control boulder. Rolling towards me, gathering speed, unstoppable and unforgiving. 

He caused it. 

Yesterday. 

The bleeding. 

He caused it. 

Somehow he caused it.

“You fucking black lunged bastard......” and I take a step towards him. I want to hurt this man so badly I can barely breathe. I want to systematically make him suffer in the same way he has made us suffer. 

Has made Scully suffer. 

But all it takes is for him to hold up his hand for me to stop in my tracks. Because I know. Suddenly I know that this is all a game to him.

“Now Fox. Don’t spoil things for yourself. Who knows what might happen to Scully if you do something rash.”

I ball my hands in to fists, the feel of my fingernails biting in to the flesh of my palms. But I welcome the pain. It tempers me just enough to remain where I am.

“What do you want from us? From me?”

He shakes his head

“You still haven’t figured it out have you Fox? I want nothing. Nothing but your loyalty. When the time comes.”

“When the time comes for what? you fucking double talking sick bastard.”

And when he doesn’t respond something inside me breaks free, I actually feel it give, like a rubber band stretched too tightly, unable to bear the pressure for even a second longer. All the years that this man has loomed like a spectre above us, controlling, manipulative, a manifestation of pure evil, hiding behind a conspiracy that destroys everything it comes in to contact with. And I can’t allow it to continue. For both Scully and I he has to be stopped, and I feel a sudden surge of satisfaction at the fear in his eyes as I lunge forwards and wrap my hands around his throat.

Continued chapter four.


	10. Part 2 chapter 4

PART TWO

CHAPTER FOUR

 

“Fox!”

I hear the panic in her voice a split second before Margaret Scully’s fingers close around one of my wrists, the feel of her grip so much like her daughters that it takes my breath away; and with it, a sudden realisation of what I am doing. Of what I am risking. I can only imagine how I must look to this woman; what she must be thinking seeing me like this.

 

It’s enough to send me staggering backwards as I release my hold on the loathsome bastard’s neck, gratified at least to see that even if I haven’t hurt him as such, I have in some small way made my point. Because for all his bravado, for all his cool exterior and calculating manipulation, for a few seconds all I saw displayed on his face was fear. Raw fear that he had made a terrible miscalculation. That this time he wouldn’t be walking away.

But even as I desperately tried to keep myself from collapsing to my knees on legs that suddenly became too weak to support my weight, his expression clears and the smirk is back.

“I never cease to marvel at your lack of conviction Fox. I used to have more respect for you. You’ve become soft. Agent Scully has been both a blessing and a curse for you. I can see that now.”

I clench my fists again, closing my eyes briefly as I swallow heavily, trying to force down the bitter taste of unrequited revenge that lies heavily on my tongue. Because he is so wrong; Scully hasn’t made me weak. She has made me strong. Stronger than I ever imagined I could be. My salvation, my guiding light that even now, as she begins to fade, still burns brighter inside me than I could ever have known.

And as I see a flickering doubt in his cool grey eyes at the lack of impact his words are having on me I feel stronger and more in control than I think I ever have before. Leaning in to him I am rewarded as he shuffles backwards slightly and I suddenly see him for what he has become – a shambling old man who hides behind his perceived power like the coward he is. He may hold the cards, but just for that one moment I am winning the game. 

And the knowledge is enough to allow me to turn and walk away. It’s the last thing he expects. Especially from me.

“Fox? Aren’t you even curious about your beloved Scully?”

His final gambit, because surely I will now turn around, the sound of her name on his lips drawing me back like a magnet. But I no longer believe him. I no longer believe that any action I take will determine whether Scully lives or dies. Only he will decide that and I refuse now to feed his desperate need for control. Instead I gently place a hand on Maggie’s back. She is clearly shocked at the situation she has found herself in and right now, nothing matters to me other than removing her from his presence, to protect her just as Scully would protect her. And I wave my hand dismissively in the air before stooping to retrieve the discarded trash bag of bloodied clothes. I speak without turning, even as I we are walking away.

“Go back to hell.”

 

XXXX

 

By the time we reach Scully’s apartment my hands are shaking so much it takes me three attempts to fit the key in the lock and eventually I am forced to drop the bag of clothing and brace myself against the door frame with my free hand, arm stretched rigidly to allow the trembling to at least be partially absorbed by the wood. 

The apartment looks exactly the same as when we left for the park yesterday afternoon. We had finished a light lunch and I had stacked the dishes on the kitchen counter, intending to clean up when we got back. A box sits on the table, unopened still. Not a gift as such, but my one indulgence in acknowledgement of Scully’s special day; a small birthday cake. Coconut with a pineapple frosting. The cake version of a Pina Colada – a drink, I had discovered from Scully, which held happy memories of a pre FBI vacation spent in Mexico with her best friend Ellen. A vacation to celebrate the final steps in to maturity before life became infinitely more serious, hampered by complexities, responsibilities and expectations.

But on that final summer, Scully had got drunk on Pina Coladas as she celebrated her life and achievements so far. And I had hoped to try to recreate at least a segment of that happy memory for her. Christ knows, there hadn’t been too many happy memories for her since then.

But the cake had remained uneaten. At least for now.

And even though it’s not even a full twenty- four hours since we left, the apartment feels empty somehow. Because the essence that is Scully has left it feeling deserted now she’s not here. It never ceases to amaze me how a woman as tiny as she is can fill the space she inhabits so fully. 

So I’m not surprised by Maggie’s question because I know she feels it too.

“Where is she Fox?” there is an edge of fear in her voice that tinges the words and her question hangs lazily in the air as my stomach suddenly clenches uncomfortably.

I know she expects an answer; deserves an answer. But I promised Scully. Dammit I promised her.

I’m sorry Scully. I can’t do this. 

“She’s in the hospital” I admit quietly, unsurprised by Maggie’s subsequest reaction.

“What?” 

There is no denying the sharpness of her tone and terrible realisation suddenly clouds her features as her eyes drop to the bag I am still holding at my side. And I wish more than anything that the contents weren’t visible, that she would be spared the sight of her daughter’s clothing, drenched in her blood; blood that even though dried in to an ugly maroon colour is no less horrific than when it glistened wet and scarlet. I take a step towards her but she shakes her head, bringing a hand to her mouth, throwing up a barrier between us that despite everything that has happened in the past, has never existed before.

“Give me the bag...”

“Maggie please..”

“Give it to me. Right now.”

I could refuse. I should refuse. But despite everything Scully had said earlier to me, I know deep down that this woman has claim to her daughter’s life that no one has any right to deny; least of all me. 

Forgive me Scully.

“Oh My God” 

She sounds both shocked and sickened and I want nothing more than to comfort her, to tell her it’s okay, that Scully is going to be fine. That the blood doesn’t mean anything has changed. But I know it’s a lie. Because in the space of ten terrifying minutes yesterday as I desperately cradled Scully in my arms, feeling her become boneless and unresponsive, I knew that everything had changed.

No more denial from any of us.

She was dying. She is dying.

“When did this happen?”

And right there and then I know that there are no platitudes, no excuses, no apologies I can make that will make this right. There is only the truth. As hard and as painful and as incomprehensible as it might be, the truth is all I have left to give.

“Yesterday afternoon” I admit quietly.

And I watch her fine features crumple as tears fill her eyes, eyes that remind me so much of Scullys I can hardly bear it. Because I instinctively know that something inside her has broken. That Scully’s refusal to allow her to be a part of this final journey is to deny her the most basic instinct that is prevalent inside every parent – to take care of her child.

I want her to rage against the injustice of all of this; to scream at me for not calling her, to make me take responsibility for all of this. But instead she just stands there, holding Scully’s blouse in her hands, seemingly unable to take her eyes off it.

“You should have called me Fox”

“I know.”

Maggie takes two steps towards me, bridging the distance between us and as she gets close enough, she thrusts Scully’s blouse at me, releasing it so it briefly strikes my chest before falling to the floor.

“So why didn’t you?” she hisses.

Because Scully told me not to.

I don’t voice the words that even to me sound like a poor excuse; a cowards way out, because as much as I am responsible to Scully, I also bear responsibility to the woman standing before me.

“I’m sorry Maggie....”

But she holds her hand up, silencing me with a glare. She doesn’t want to hear my apologies. I don’t blame her.

“You had no right.” 

Spitting the words at me before turning on her heel and exiting the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

I briefly consider following her, to try to make her understand. But I know that she will resist all and any attempts that I might broker to try to justify keeping her out of the loop. That something has been lost today that can never be regained. I feel a strange sense of calmness wash over me as I make my way to the bathroom, twisting the shower faucet to hot, shedding my clothes quickly, needing to feel the water on my skin, to wash away the loathing I feel inside. And as I turn, I catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirrored cabinet that is fixed to the wall above the sink, barely hesitating as I draw back my arm, feeling the pain slash across my knuckles as I drive my clenched fist straight in to the glass.

 

Continued Chapter five


	11. Part 2 chapter 5

PART TWO

CHAPTER FIVE

 

I am so much later than I wanted to be and guilt prickles at me as I make my way along one of the endless corridors that leads to Scully’s room. If it weren’t for the numbers on the doors, there would be absolutely no way of differentiating one floor from the next. My hand is throbbing sickeningly beneath the piss poor attempt I have made to dress and bandage it with the one fully functioning hand I have at my disposal. First aid isn’t exactly my strong point, because after all, Scully is the doctor in this partnership and I’ve lost count of the amount of times she has had cause to patch me up over the years when I’ve fallen headlong in to one dangerous situation after another.

Mostly though, the injuries have either been caused by the actions of another or by my own occasional blindness to the risks surrounding me as I jump my size tens straight in to danger.

Self-inflicted injury is rare. Although not unheard of for me when the pressure builds inside me and demands release. Oh yeah, I’ve punched a few walls in my time and in the battle between man and solid object, solid object has usually prevailed; but I’ve generally been able to hide it from Scully. Who wants to admit to their partner that they have lost control just enough to make bruising their knuckles preferable to the kind of mental castigation I had become so adept in meting out to myself? That the prospect of physical pain was far, far less damaging than its mental counterpart?

But smashing a mirror with my bare hand? That’s a new one on me and I was actually taken aback by how much it fucking hurt. And as I thrust my bleeding hand under the cold tap in Scully’s bathroom, the sight of the blood from the deep cuts mingling and swirling with the water as it circled down the drain caused me to almost lose the precarious hold my stomach had on the crappy hospital food I had shovelled down earlier in the day.

I was exhausted, emotionally and physically from the events not just of the previous day, but of the weeks and months that came before and perhaps for the first time I admitted to myself that I was precariously balancing on the edge of reason. That at any point I would come crashing down and God knows who I might bring down with me. I had already proven today that my thought process was pretty screwed, first with that cancer ridden bastard and more crucially, with Scully’s Mother. I should have at least tried to justify Scully’s need to protect her from the worst that this disease could bring. To make her understand that this is Scullys attempt in some way to preserve a memory of her that wasn’t tainted by blood and pain and the desperate fear of death.

For Scully I should have made her understand.

But instead I had just stood there and said nothing. Not one fucking word of comfort did I offer a woman who, like her child, has remained allied to me even in the face of so much heartbreak.

Bill Jr once stood before me and called me a sorry son of a bitch; and I hadn’t found any good reason before or since to disagree with him, least of all today.

But despite the dread I feel at facing Scully, who, sick or not will surely require an explanation as to why my battered knuckles are swathed in a loosely tied bandage that the blood had continue to seep slowly through to bloom like a red rose on the cloth surface, there is one small light on my horizon, a light as always that came straight from her.

A call as I was engaged in trying to pack a bag for her. News that she was being moved out of the ICU and in to a general ward. Her vitals were all good. Oxygen saturation levels back within normal range. And while she still felt tired and nauseous, a few hours sleep had more or less returned her back to normal. Or at least whatever passed for normal these days.

But it was good news. The best news I could have hoped for given the circumstances and I had grabbed hold of it and held on, because it meant we were one step closer to her coming home. That this time, the darkness had been held at bay and whether we held it back for a week or a month or a year, each small victory was precious and to be quietly celebrated; small battles to be won even if we would eventually lose the war. And I would take each of those battles and store them away so we might draw strength from them the next time. Because, while I’m unsure of some things, I do know with a certainty that almost swallows me whole, that there will be a next time. That the battles will keep on coming until eventually the fight becomes too great and the battle too exhausting.

But for now, for now, we are winning. 

And I will hold on to that.

I’m so deep in thought that I walk straight past Scully’s room and have to backtrack a few feet. The door is slightly ajar but I still tap lightly to alert her to my presence. I think I expected her to be sleeping, or at the very least resting atop the bed. But in fact, she is standing at the window, forehead resting against the cool glass, as she observes the hustle and bustle of the grounds beneath her. The room is bathed in weak winter sunshine and it surrounds her body like a halo, blending the lines of her body in to an aura of white light; a perfect living silhouette against the bright light behind the glass. The effect is mesmerising, almost angelic. And I am quite literally rooted to the spot.

Scully is a deeply spiritual person. She holds her faith before her like a protective force and while i don’t share her belief I can appreciate what it means to her; to be able to draw on that same faith in much the same way I have always found my own particular faith in the truth. But just for a moment, I can appreciate what having Scully’s faith might mean; that even in the midst of so much darkness, the brightness of light will always prevail.

Dana Scully

My guiding light

And then she turns, smiling as she realises it’s me. She is perhaps the only person on this earth who has ever smiled at me like that when she sees me, a smile that affirms every single time I see it that I am wanted. That I am still worthy enough for someone to be pleased I am there with them.

I dump the holdall on the bed and cross the short distance that separates us, scrutinising her face carefully even as I cup my hands either side and drop a gentle kiss on her lips. She still looks tired, frighteningly pale, the billowing hospital gown she wears serving to make her look so much more fragile than she really is. And of course she is shoe-less. The thin hospital issue socks on her feet add nothing to her height and I try to force back the realisation of just how weakened she looks. But her eyes are clear. Those beautiful blue eyes that on occasion, have almost severed my head from my body when I’ve got myself in to a stupid situation; eyes that can change from blue steel to soft velvet dependent on her moods. Scully’s eyes, the windows to her soul and like me, the only part of herself that cannot lie, which is probably why in the past we have turned away from each other so many times. To hide truths from each other not ready to be spoken.

But today, now, I see nothing within them to mar their clear beauty. Her mind is peaceful. She isn’t in pain. I don’t need anything else.

But then as my lips track upwards, lingering for a moment on her forehead before I rest my chin on the crown of her head, dropping my hands to her waist as I tighten my grip on her, drawing her against me, I feel a subtle shift in her focus. 

“Mulder your hand..”

Busted.

“It’s okay. It’s nothing.”

 

But she won’t be deflected, stepping out of the embrace as she catches hold of my wrist, brow furrowing as she takes in the blood soaked bandage, her doctors training, her need to nurture, to protect immediately rising to the fore and not for the first time I can’t help but think what an amazing Mother she would have made. But that chance has been taken from her. Like so many other hopes and dreams have before.

I once told Scully that I had never seen her as a Mother before.

But now that she can’t have it, sometimes it’s all I see.

She guides me to the bed and pushes me gently in to a seated position, her deft fingers unwrapping the bandage that has loosened since my clumsy application. And she frowns as it becomes obvious that with each layer she removes, the more blood is apparent. Until finally the bandage is off, discarded carelessly on to the floor below and I can’t help a strangled hiss as her fingers press around the edges of the deepest wound. An inch long, deep cut that starts at the base of my index finger and curves its way in a near perfect half moon around the knuckle of my middle finger. The skin at the top of the knuckle is missing and I am suddenly struck by the way it resembles a question mark. 

“Mulder this needs stitching. What did you do?”

I refuse to look at her, ashamed suddenly that in the midst of everything she is fighting; her focus is for me and me alone. 

“Would you believe me if I told you your bathroom cabinet fell on to my fist?” I try to keep my voice light but obviously my pathetic attempt doesn’t fool her for a second because her eyes are suddenly so filled with sorrow I could scream.

I allow her to draw me towards her, feel her hand cool on the back of my neck tracing circles with her thumb, and even though I am aware always of that tiny ridge of scar tissue, she doesn’t notice. And for that I am infinitely thankful. 

“I’m sorry Mulder.”

Her admission is unexpected because I can’t think of a single thing she has to be sorry for. Until....

“My Mom came by. She told me what happened.”

And then I understand.

“I shouldn’t have put you in that position. I’m sorry.”

I nod, keeping my eyes closed as I rest my face against the soft pillow of her breast. I am so tired I just want to remain there forever. Safe, protected, fulfilled in the arms of the woman who makes the very universe make sense to me. She doesn’t mention my other visitor and I can only assume that Maggie had more important things to discuss with her. 

Maybe I will tell her later. 

Probably I won’t.

“It’s okay Scully.” I say, even though nothing is really okay right now.

I feel her lips press in to the crown of my head and she remains there for a few seconds, breathing in the scent of my recently washed hair. And I’m not surprised by her whispered entreaty.

“Lets go home Mulder. I just want to go home.”

 

XXXX

 

Despite Dr Zuckerman’s protestations to the contrary, Scully had refused to be deflected. I could have told him he was wasting his time even as he quietly laid down all the reasons why it would be better for her to remain in the hospital just for one more night. One more night to ensure she was strong enough to return home.

He obviously had no concept as to just how strong this woman really is. And while I know Scully holds him in great regard, both as her Doctor and as a human being, she had made up her mind. Eventually though, she had reached a small compromise – she would remain resting in her room for as long as it took me to be processed through the ER and to receive treatment on my injured hand. He had raised his eyebrows questioningly when faced with the jagged mess of cuts and bruises that criss- crossed my bloodied knuckles and I had almost snorted out loud when Scully explained that the damn bathroom cabinet had fallen off the wall. Sometimes, just sometimes, she is so damn adorable I could cry with laughter at some of the things she says. It was one of the reasons I fell in love with her I think. Her ability to deliver the most outrageous reasoning while maintaining a perfectly straight face.

So I had obediently made my way down to the ER and tried to patiently wait it out as I was put through the rigours of the system; triage, X-Rays, stitches and a further wait at the hospital pharmacy to collect antibiotics to stave off infection. And it was over 4 hours before we were finally able to leave.

Scully refused point blank to leave in a wheelchair. She was perfectly capable of walking she insisted and the harried nurse finally shrugged in a ‘suit yourself’ kind of way and left us to it. 

As we left the main building, I glanced at our reflections in the window. Scully was dressed now in the clothes I had brought from home for her; dark blue jeans, a soft cream turtleneck sweater and her brown suede jacket. And just for a second, I could pretend she wasn’t sick at all. The holdall was slung over my shoulder, held lightly in place by my injured hand. It hurts like hell but it means my other hand is free to entwine fingers with Scully. Her hand feels warm in my palm and it’s a good feeling.

We stop briefly outside the doors, breathing in the chill air, our breaths turning to vapour, mingling together for just an instant before disappearing up in to the darkness of night and as her fingers tighten slightly I stop and look down at her.

“You okay?”

She smiles at me then, and it’s a smile that is tinged with sadness, because we both know she isn’t okay. Not really. 

But then her expression clears, her eyes catching the light from the lamps that border the hospital entrance.

“You promised me cake right?”

I laugh.

“Yeah. I promised you cake. And candles. Lots of candles.”

“And ice cream?”

“Sure if you want.”  


Scully nods, considering my words.

“Cake makes everything okay Mulder”

And I think that tonight at least, she might just be right.

 

Continued chapter 6


	12. Part 2 chapter 6

PART TWO

CHAPTER SIX 

There have been no more nosebleeds. Not since that frightening day in the park has Scully lost so much as a spot of blood. But this time, what she is actually losing is so much worse, because this time, as the tumour pushes an unrelenting path in to her brain, what she is steadily losing is herself.

The first time I really noticed was about a week after I had brought her home from the hospital, a week after we had sat cross legged on the couch, facing each other as we fed each other forkfuls of coconut Birthday cake and vanilla ice cream. And for a few hours I had been happy. The pain in my injured hand not even really registering as I watched my partner laugh as I dabbed a blob of butter cream on to the end of her small, sculptured nose, leaning forwards in response to the playful challenge she threw down to me from those sparkling blue eyes. And just for a few hours we forgot everything as we lost ourselves in each other.

Should we have made love that night?

Probably not; Scully was still weak from the blood loss and by rights shouldn’t even have been released from the hospital, but there was an unspoken need between us that we couldn’t ignore so we just took it steady, tempering the passion through necessity and truthfully, something happened to me that night as I gazed down at her enlarged pupils and lips that were swollen from a hundred teasing kisses and my whole perception of life seemed to shift slightly on its axis, rendering me almost unconscious with love for this woman. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before – a joining of two souls that nothing would ever tear apart and I swear I could almost see the shadows melding in to light around us, chasing away the darkness, leaving only this love, a love so blinding in its intensity that it would survive somehow inside me even as the physical structure was taken from it.

Maybe it’s true that love is eternal. I don’t know. But that night, just for a few moments, I felt sure that it could be.

And as Scully gently cupped one of her small hands around my face, her eyes told me that she felt it too.

I held on to that feeling in the days that followed as Scully’s headaches intensified; rendering her unable to function on any level at all for more than a few minutes. I lost count of the hours I spent holding her against me, spooning myself around her as I gently tried to stroke her pain away. Sometimes I succeeded. Most times I didn’t. And it became very obvious very quickly that it was time to up the pain meds.

She cried then. Huge wracking sobs that almost tore me apart, knowing as she did that stronger medication was the first small downward spiral towards the abyss and she had fought so hard, so fucking hard to deny the need to herself and to me. Until one day when I came home from work to find her curled in a ball in the bathroom, surrounded by the sickly sour-sweet scent of her own pain induced vomit clutching her head as tears and snot marred her beautiful face; screaming at me to make it stop. To please just make it stop. We already had the morphine; prescribed by Dr Zuckerman, to be used when things got bad. He had shown me how to inject her, an action necessitated by her refusal to be admitted to the hospital where her pain could be better managed and if I had initially baulked at the idea when she first suggested it as a compromise, when it came right down to it, plunging the needle in to her that first time to stop her hurting was singularly the easiest fucking thing I had ever had to do in my entire Godforsaken life.

I had held her then, right there on the bathroom floor, I rocked her gently until her anguished cries gradually tapered off in to occasional hitching sobs and she turned and buried herself in the folds of the jacket I hadn’t even had time to remove, knowing then that, even if she couldn’t voice it, she needed me there; that I could deny it no longer.

That night, after I had cleaned her up and carried her to the bedroom, laying her gently down as she succumbed to the medication now numbing her senses I picked up the phone and called Skinner to let him know I required an indefinite leave. That for as long as it took, I wouldn’t be returning to work.

It put him in a difficult position. I know that now. Because Scully and I, on paper at least, were nothing more to each other than partners. Work Colleagues. Bureau policy on the fraternisation between male and female agents was very clear and while relationships surely occurred on a regular basis, it was never acknowledged. And yet here I was, expecting to be granted a leave of absence on full pay without a single question being raised; but he managed it. God knows how he managed it but I received the paperwork just 48 hours later, the box labelled ‘expected return date’ marked ‘unknown’.

And to my surprise, I effectively walked away from my life’s work without even a murmur of dissent. 

Because the X-Files suddenly didn’t matter anymore. 

Nothing mattered any more except Scully.

Don’t get me wrong, we still had a measure of normality. The morphine, whilst sometimes leaving her fuzzy and disorientated, did its job admirably and without the constant pain, Scully was able to carry on. Her appetite was poor though and she began to lose weight, beginning to look as sick on the outside as she was on the inside. But despite this, she was still my Scully. She still laughed, still poked me in the ribs playfully when I overstepped the mark, and still admonished me when I casually dropped my discarded clothes on the bedroom floor instead of crossing the few feet to the laundry hamper. She could still beat me hands down at Yatzee and Clue , grinning at me with satisfaction at my frustration when I lost over and over again despite my best efforts.

Oh yeah, she was still my Scully.

 

We spent hours walking. Usually around Rivergate, as slowly winter turned in to spring and new life began to bloom around us. The irony of that wasn’t lost on either of us I don’t think.

Occasionally we got in the car and just drove. Aimlessly driving, needing in some unspoken way to keep moving forwards. We just let the road take us, stopping if something or somewhere caught our interest. Often she would fall asleep with her head resting against my shoulder, and I would find somewhere to park just so I could look at her. Sometimes being with her was so excruciatingly painful that something hard and cold took up residence in my chest cavity, stealing my breath from me and rendering me incapable of speech. And she knew; she always knew when I was falling and she would find a way to emotionally catch me before I hit the ground.

Only very rarely did we talk about her cancer. 

We both refused I think, to allow ourselves to be defined by it or more crucially, for our relationship to be defined by it.

Until one day, one frightening day, when Scully began to drop random words in to her sentences, substituting in a way that clearly made sense to her but only to her. And even more frightening was that she was totally unaware that she was even doing it. The first time it happened I thought she was kidding.

*Had you big time Mulder*

But it was all too clear that she wasn’t.

She had refused all offers of a further MRI scan, arguing that since she was on no actual treatment protocol, tracking the progress of the disease was pointless. But really, I think she was simply afraid. I didn’t blame her since I seemed to spend every waking hour suspended in a state of perpetual terror that gnawed at me with an uninterrupted tenacity that would have, if I’d allowed it to, swiftly rendered me unable to function on even the most basic level. I wasn’t sure I was ready to physically have to face the demon that was slowly and relentlessly taking her away from me, not ready to have to weigh the time we had left in weeks or months. It was just too damn painful.

So instead, we made memories. As best we could at least.

A trip to the fair where we rode the ferris wheel again and again, laughing as the wind whipped around us, her slapping me at the centre of the chest in mock admonishment as I made the car rock when we were right at the top of the arc. And I kissed her, slow and deep as coloured lights twinkled beneath us and the starlit sky stretched to infinity above. I kissed her with my eyes wide open, to preserve this moment in time for ever. The sight of her face, flushed as it was with almost childlike happiness as I prayed to whatever God controlled the universe to please let me keep her for one more week, one more month, one more year; knowing the futility even as I wished that it could be so.

Because day by day, it was becoming clear that there was no stopping the progression of the disease, that the Scully I had fallen in love with so many years ago was slowly being taken. Not just from me, but from herself.

Her short term memory was becoming poor. For the most part she managed to hide it from me although I know she was in the habit of checking to see if her toothbrush was wet; to check that she had remembered to clean her teeth in the morning. And that she had begun to carry a small note book and pen with her in to which she jotted small snippets of daily life, to refer back to should she forget. She never asked me for help in that regard, fiercely trying to hang on to her independence, refusing to be cowed by the relentless damage being wrought upon her by this cruel disease.

I had reconciled myself to the fact a long time ago that this time there would be no miracle cure. That any intervention I had thought might come had been nothing but a scant hope from a desperate man. I had been stupid to even think that there might be. Because finally I knew, that everything leading up to this point had been carefully orchestrated and calculated. To give her back to me the last time. To allow me to fall in love with her, only to take her now was almost too heinous an act for me to comprehend. 

On one night, not so very long ago, Scully had made me promise that I would continue to fight for justice. For her, for me, for everything and everyone who had been taken from us both. And I promised. Of course I promised. I would promise her the sun moon and stars if I thought it might bring her peace.

And when she was gone, when I had finally let her go, I would beg for her forgiveness before putting my gun against my temple and pulling the trigger.

Because without her, there could never be justice.

Because no amount of legal or moral recompense could ever be equal to what they have taken from her.

And now, as I sit on the sofa, listening to the sound of Scully’s desperate sobs from within the bedroom where she has locked herself, I no longer have any fight left to give. I feel hollow inside. As though my heart has been ripped out of my chest.

Because this evening, as we curled up together on the sofa to watch TV, my beautiful, brilliant partner with her incredible mind, the woman who re-wrote Einstein when she was 23 years old, discovered that she could no longer read; that the words on the screen meant absolutely nothing to her. 

And as I watched her literally fall apart before me, months of futile denial finally becoming undeniable, something cracked and broke free from her and she fought me with everything she had as I tried to take her in my arms, to soothe her even as I knew that there was nothing I could hope to do to make this right. Watching helplessly as she sought escape from me. 

I didn’t follow her.

I couldn’t follow her.

Because I am alive and she is dying. For perhaps the first time she has to acknowledge that she is dying. 

And she needs this time. I will give her the time she needs to at least begin to make sense of all this and then I will take her in to my protective embrace and find a way to help her to keep going, to keep fighting. 

Because I can’t lose her yet. 

I just can’t.

 

XXXX

 

I think I fell asleep for a few minutes. I have no recollection of even closing my eyes, but the shadows in the room have deepened slightly. My watch tells me that barely half an hour has passed, but the apartment is quiet. The sounds of Scully’s distress have silenced and I decide to risk going to her.

But when I enter the bedroom, I am suddenly frozen with an inexplicable fear that paralyzes me. I am unable to move as I realise she isn’t there. And like a magnet, my eyes are drawn to the centre of the bed, to the leather holster that usually holds Scully’s service revolver in place.

It is empty.

And she is gone.

My eyes narrow as I see a single page torn from a book has been left alongside the holster and with shaking hands I pick it up. My throat is burning with a combination of raw fear and an all encompassing guilt that I fell asleep.   
She was hurting and I fell asleep. 

I recognise the page as being the preface to one of Scully’s favourite books, a collection of poems and anecdotes that speak of love, of remembrance. Of loss. 

She knows that book by heart.

‘ Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away in to the next room.  
Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly the way it was. I am I and you are you, and   
The old life we lived so fondly together remains unchanged.   
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name.  
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference in to your tone.  
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.   
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was.  
There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.  
All is well’

And even as I am scanning the words, I hear a noise, a strange animalistic keening sound that builds in volume and intensity until I realise that the sound is coming from me as realisation slams in to my consciousness.

No Scully. Please No. Not this. Never this.

And I literally throw myself out of the apartment, screaming her name. 

But there is only silence.

CONTINUED PART THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the beautiful piece of writing at the end goes to Henry Scott Holland (27 January 1847 – 17 March 1918) who was Regius Professor of Divinity at the University of Oxford.


	13. Part 3 Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He giveth and he taketh away.

J Edgar Hoover Building

 

The atrium is busy despite the early hour; throngs of people who, for some reason this morning seem intent on getting in my way. My progress is slightly hampered by the fact I am trying to precariously balance two take out cups of coffee, one atop the other since the small coffee shop both Mulder and I favour were out of cup carriers and actually I had briefly considered not bothering this morning. But since he bought yesterday it’s only fair that I return the favour today.

Mulder has to have coffee in the morning. I’ve known him enough years now to know to give him a wide berth should he be dragged away from his morning hit of caffeine before it’s had time to percolate through his system and I’m becoming painfully aware that if one more person jostles me there is a very good chance that the cups will wind up on the floor.

It’s been a strange morning so far. I feel slightly out of step with the rest of the world, as though I’m playing catch up. Odd feelings of déjà vu have been plaguing me since I awoke. And I felt strangely disjointed, as though I was viewing myself through the eyes of another as I carried out my usual morning routine. I briefly allow myself a smile as Mulders face nudges its way in to my mind because there’s no doubt he would be able to supply a dozen reasons for my strange mood today. All and anything from Shamanistic ritual voodoo to Missing time phenomena. My partner of six years likes nothing more than to find a fantastical explanation for the mundane. Simple, logical, reasonable hypothesis are my rubric not his and while sometimes my rationale is the driving force within our partnership; I learned to admit a long time ago that more often than not it isn’t.

We have a meeting with Skinner this morning. Which If I don’t get a move on I’m going to be hopelessly late for. I reach the elevators finally, and by some miracle both coffee cups are still intact and balanced. It’s a small victory but after six years on the X-Files – give or take a few unscheduled sojourns in to the wonderful world of cowshit – I count each victory no matter how small because God knows, our victories have always been hard to come by.

The ‘up’ elevator arrives first and I make the decision to go directly to Skinners office. At least that way I’ll be early and will have chance to call Mulder to let him know to meet me up there. And I take a deep breath as I squeeze myself in to the crowded space, still trying to hold on to those damn coffee cups.

I hate crowded elevators at the best of times but I particularly dislike these elevators. Because even after six years of working with Mulder, I haven’t quite got used to the way conversations stop and voices become hushed as my fellow agents realise that they have one half of Team Spooky in their midst. I know we have a reputation. God knows it’s been spelled out often enough for me over the years. I mean, regardless of how adept I am at my job, how high my IQ might be, how toned my fucking abs are or how good I look in a tailored suit, I am forever tainted by what has gone before and while Mulder is mostly impervious to the whispered comments that follow us around the corridors of this vast building, I am not. I don’t think I ever will be. I think in the beginning I was largely ignored, pitied even. 

Dana Scully, promising young Agent, top of her class at Quantico. Serious, smart, sexy even, saddled with Old Spooky Mulder; brilliant crackpot and he of the frequent mental breakdown. But then everything changed. My disappearance 4 years ago and subsequent return shifted those perceptions and I was put firmly in to my perceived role as Mrs Spooky. And nothing has changed since then. And it bothers me sometimes. I wish it didn’t.

Today is no different and even as I risk a glance in the mirrored walls in front of me, I immediately drop my eyes away from the curious glances being thrown in my direction. And I have a sudden urge to smile sweetly back and pop them the finger. Really give them something to talk about over lunch.

I don’t of course because Dana Scully would never do that.

That would be simply unthinkable.

So I look down at the floor, avoiding the issue, just like I always do.

Finally though, after stopping at almost every fucking floor, the elevator is empty aside from me and a small bespectacled kid with a sweet face who I vaguely recognise as working in the records department. He looks about eighteen although I know he must be older than that and I find myself smiling sadly at his reflection in the glass because he suddenly reminds me of Agent Pendrill.

He must have noticed me looking at him though because I notice a flush of red begin to creep up his neck to colour his face and I wonder if I should apologise for staring. But before I can transfer thought in to action, the elevator stops at his floor and to my surprise he briefly touches my arm as he draws level, not meeting my eyes as he awkwardly mumbles something I only barely manage to catch before he is gone.

“It’s good to see you back Agent Scully”

The fact that it’s a strange way to greet someone isn’t lost on me, not least because I haven’t been anywhere, at least not lately. Both Mulder and I generally shun vacations, I can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of personal days we have taken since we started working together; and lately we are batting a thousand, having managed to avoid being shot, rundown, abducted or drugged. Oh yeah, Team Spooky are on a roll.

The thought makes me smile and I am still smiling when I enter the anteroom that leads to Skinners office. He is actually leaning over his assistants’ desk and not for the first time I allow myself to idly wonder if there is more to their relationship than meets the eye; never more so as I hear a sharp gasp from Holly as she sees me standing there. Skinner follows her gaze and when he sees me his eyes widen behind his wire rimmed glasses; he straightens up to look at me, whatever words he was about to say dying on his lips as I literally watch the colour drain from his face. I am reasonably adept at reading Skinner, because as much as he can be a hardass with regards to Mulder and I, he is one of our few allies and I trust him. The trust makes him easy to read.

But today, the look on his face is enough to make my breath catch in my throat as I feel my heart rate increase slightly. 

He takes a step towards me, softly, gently; as though he is afraid I will turn and flee

“Scully?” 

His voice barely above a whisper and suddenly I am frightened. Inexplicably I am so frightened that I want to do just that.

Because he is looking at me like he’s seen a ghost.

 

Continued Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I would have combined prologue and chapter one but since we shift to Mulder’s POV next chapter I decide it was better to keep them separate. Plus it is almost the length of a regular chapter so it kind of deserved its own page


	14. Part 3 Chapter 1

PART THREE

CHAPTER ONE

 

It’s been an exhausting day for us both I think and as I surreptitiously glance across the small room to where Scully is sat atop the bed, my emotions threaten once again to almost overwhelm me. Because she’s alive. She is well. And she is here.

But the costs it seems have been enormous for her; for us.

Because she cannot remember; she cannot remember any of it.

The call from Skinner had dragged me from a fitful sleep and the sound of the phone trilling in my ear from where I had left it, not six inches away from me lest news of her should come, had caused me to bolt awake with the same feeling of hope and dread that had become all too familiar since she had gone missing five days before.

Five short days.

Five days that had seemed to me like a lifetime.

Five days were I couldn’t eat without throwing up, couldn’t sleep without nightmares of her laying somewhere cold and dark, the back of her head missing and the gun clutched in her hand coming to plague me. Five days where I thought I had lost her and, not surprisingly, had lost myself right along with her.

Skinner had refused to let me anywhere near the investigation and subsequent desperate search for her after, with my usual aplomb; I had managed to blot my copybook before the first day had even gone by. After hearing one of the hastily appointed task force agents, a slimy little brown-nosed bastard named Rigg, lean in to his equally smarmy sidekick and proclaim the absolute futility and waste of man-power to afford so much time and resource on searching for a dead woman.

It had taken three agents to drag me off the oily piece of shit and I think if Skinner hadn’t intervened, his voice being the only one that managed to cut through the red mist that had descended upon me so completely, I would have killed him right there and then in the conference room.

As it was he got away lightly with nothing more than a heavy case of busted pride and I earned myself a seven day suspension while OPR considered my eventual punishment. But the suspension itself hadn’t bothered me unduly because no punishment they might meet out to me could even come close to making me feel any worse than I already had.

Skinner had driven me home himself. I think he thought he owed it to me after effectively blocking my access from the investigation and while I sat and seethed with unrequited revenge, deep down I knew he had done the right thing. That I was way too close to have even a shred of objectivity any more. And before he had left, he had dropped a hand on my shoulder; a wholly uncharacteristic gesture from this most tightly controlled of men, his expression such a mix of compassion and steely determination that I was unable to speak.

“We will find her Mulder.”

And I had nodded numbly, even then not really believing that she had any intention of being found.

Which was ironic as it turned out, because in fact, Scully was the one who had found him; had found us.

I can only imagine his complete and utter shock that morning when he had turned and seen her standing in his office; a Scully, who while a little thinner than she had been six months ago when the cancer had started to take hold, to all intents and purposes looked and acted completely normally. From the tips of her customary three inched heeled ‘come fuck me’ shoes to the top of her impeccably styled hair she stood in Skinners office looking every inch the consummate professional.

Oh yeah, Scully had always known how to make an entrance.

I had literally thrown myself out of her apartment and in to my car, and had negotiated the rush hour traffic that clogged the DC streets like a man possessed. In fact I can’t believe I didn’t kill myself or even worse, some other poor bastard, because I arrived at the parking garage of the Hoover building with absolutely no conscious recollection of how I’d got there.

Because the mantra that had begun repeating itself in my head before I had even ended Skinner’s call had simply increased in volume and urgency inside me until it effectively blotted everything out.

She’s alive. She’s alive.

Skinner had not really furnished me with too many details during the call. I think mainly because he was smart enough to realise that I would be incapable of moving past the fact that she was still with us. That I needed in some small way to process the unbelievable before I could even hope to allow anything else to crowd it out of my conscious thought.

It wasn’t until I reached skinner’s office that he even attempted to explain and despite my need to push past him to see for myself that she was really there, something in his expression gave me pause to hear his words.

“She doesn’t remember, Mulder.” 

But as I walked carefully in to his office, almost afraid of what I might find, his words just didn’t seem to matter. Because the sight of her standing there drove every single thought from my mind as the mantra started up once again.

She’s alive. Oh Christ she’s alive.

And not only was she alive, she looked completely normal in every way. Better than normal in fact. She looked exquisitely beautiful, impeccable, controlled. Until she locked eyes with me and I saw the fear and confusion that radiated from within them. 

The tremor in her voice that she tried unsuccessfully to hide from me.

“Mulder?.....”

And I had been quite unable to prevent myself from crossing the few feet that separated us, and wrapping my arms around her, breathing in the scent of her, the essence that was Scully as the tears filmed my eyes, born of a relief so intense I think I would have collapsed if she hadn’t been there to hold me up.

And right then, I didn’t care as to what might come later, the difficulties that would surely arrive to cloud this day for us both. Because she was alive, she was here, and I was pretty sure she was once again whole.

But alongside that was knowledge that she was balanced precariously on the edge. That whatever happened from here on in, her life had changed forever; because a part of it had been stolen from her even as the rest had been given back.

He giveth and he taketh away. Because he has the power, right?

And it wasn’t lost on me that this time he had taken from both of us.

I had gently led Scully to the small, utilitarian sofa that sat against the wall in Skinners office. Pushing her down on to it and hunkering down in front of her, taking her shaking hands in mine as I sought answers that might allow us both to understand.

“Do you know what day it is Scully”

“It’s Tuesday”

There was absolutely no hesitation in her voice. 

But today is Friday.

And even despite the information Skinner had briefly furnished me with as to her current recollection of recent history, it still shocked me to hear her tremulously proclaim that it was September when in actuality, it hadn’t been September for almost seven months. Seven months since she discovered the cancer was back, discovered she was dying. Seven months. Gone. Taken from her just like that.

And it became clear that while she could ‘remember’ being at her apartment this morning preparing herself for the day ahead, that the memory was wholly false. Because I think I would have noticed if Scully had been wandering around following her morning rituals and I was damn sure that the only occupants of her home this morning had consisted of me and my myriad of dark thoughts.

She could remember in minute detail the events of yesterday – or at least her perception of yesterday – and as she recounted them to me, her recollections seemed vaguely familiar; the case we had been working on, the thick turkey salad sandwiches she had fetched us from the deli across the street when we decided to eat lunch in the office. The fact they had put pickle on mine even though she had asked them not to.

The memories were completely new and fresh in her mind, just as though their events had happened only yesterday. Which to Scully of course, they had.

And In as much as it was worrying and perplexing and unexplainable, I knew that there were far more pressing matters that required our attention. Especially since, on gently swiping away her hair from where it lay, vibrant and glossy against her neck, I wasn’t even remotely surprised to find evidence of the fresh, still healing cut that marred her porcelain skin; absolute and irrefutable evidence that whatever had happened that night in her apartment just five short days ago, had had nothing at all to do with Scully’s free will.

She had been summoned. 

Directed.

Just as we had been directed for so many years.

Explaining to her the events of the last few painful months fell to me of course and as I sat in Skinners office trying to make her understand just how enormous the stakes had been, one thing became obvious. That she couldn’t be told about the relationship we had shared.

That to know what else had been taken from her might very well break her. Bad enough that the life she knew had disappeared, even worse to find a life she had no knowledge of had also been taken away.

And as I observe her now, sat miserably on the hard hospital bed, knees drawn up against her chest, arms wrapped around them I know that she has thrown her walls back up. 

An act of protection to keep her from falling. Desperately hanging on to herself amidst such internal chaos as she tries to make sense of everything she has learned.

And not telling her will surely break me.

But I keep reminding myself over and over that she is alive.

And that has to be enough.

Continued chapter two


	15. Part 3 chapter 2

PART THREE

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

It’s been two weeks since Scully came back. Two short weeks where everything has changed, changed for both of us and I find myself becoming desperately worried about her.

To all outward purposes she is totally normal in every way – she is vibrant even. I suppose I had become accustomed to her being ill and I can’t help marvelling at how our minds can trick us in situations when the people we love are living with devastating illness. Because I had almost forgotten how she looked when she was well. But as the days went on after her return, everything about her became vibrant as she became physically whole again.

Everything except her eyes that is.

Because like me, Scully can’t hide what shows in her eyes. And her eyes have become clouded, the confusion and hurt so evident on that first day has been replaced with a guarded expression as she closes herself off in increments as the days and weeks go on. She doesn’t look at me anymore. In fact she avoids all and every situation where I might force her to show me what’s hidden behind those luminous blue eyes because she is terrified that I will ask her questions she has no idea how to answer.

She refuses point blank to discuss any of it. Not her illness, not her decline and most certainly not the huge gap in her memory that has been created. A gap she will never be able to fill.

I can still remember her expression that first night in the hospital when she sat as though made of stone, so rigid in her control I was afraid she would simply snap like a tightly coiled spring as she listened to Dr Zuckerman incredulously deliver the news that the tumour had gone. The MRI scan had shown just the faintest shadow in the area of Scully’s frontal lobe where it had insidiously invaded, stealing much from her as it relentlessly attacked the very centre of her but now, just that faint shadow the only evidence it had ever existed at all.

Her blood work came back completely normal. As did her ECG, blood oxygen levels, white cell count and the comprehensive motor skill and short term memory tests they gave her. In short, Scully was as healthy as she’d ever been both mentally and physically. 

She had asked to read through her medical records and charts since diagnosis and also the paperwork that had been generated from the gunshot wound she received to her thigh. And I had watched her closely from across the room as she quietly and thoroughly worked her way through it. Her expression hadn’t altered, her face completely neutral, in fact for all the emotion she showed she might have been reading the morning newspaper. She had agreed to stay in the hospital overnight on a voluntary basis – Dr Zuckerman seemed to be completely at a loss as to how to proceed and didn’t quite seem able to accept this latest miracle without ensuring he had entirely covered his medical basis. I didn’t pretend to understand exactly what he discussed with Scully only that it involved a few more tests to be run; after which time she would be free to leave, to resume her life.

We didn’t speak that afternoon or at least nothing beyond the barest inane pleasantries that rang hollowly in my ears as the mental image of Scully disintegrating before my eyes just a few short days ago burned and writhed within me, the feelings of terror that had plagued me during the days of her disappearance where I spent every waking moment praying for even a crumb of hope amidst a numbing terror every time I allowed myself to think the unthinkable. And despite the absolute encompassing relief that she was here with me I was consumed by a feeling of incredible sadness, because in actuality, she wasn’t here with me at all; at least not in any real way. 

In fact, the only time she allowed a small chink to open up in that patented Scully armour was when she reached the point in the file where Dr Zuckerman had authorised off-hospital use of liquid morphine and both our signatures that enabled me to administer the drug to Scully and the understanding of the dosages permitted. And I think, up until that point she had assumed that she had been with her Mom the whole time. The realisation that it had been me clouded her features with momentary confusion and she had met my eyes guardedly.

“You took care of me when I was sick?”

“Yes.”

But she had asked nothing further. Just tilted the corners of her mouth up in an action that only barely resembled a smile and the sadness in her eyes almost caused me to come apart. Her whispered words, cracked and broken, barely audible as her frown suddenly deepened and she fought to hold on to her composure.

“Thank you.”

And I think that at that moment in time, I had never wanted or needed to take her in my arms and find a way to make this right for her again.

My Scully.

But not mine any more.

 

I don’t know if she noticed the myriad of emotion that must have surely shown on my face, but she immediately dropped her gaze from mine, turning her attention back to those files; not even looking at me as she once more closed off.

“Go home Mulder. You look exhausted.”

Home. 

I didn’t even know where home was any more.

But I did as she asked and left, knowing the futility of arguing with her. She didn’t want me there; she didn’t want anyone there.

So I spent one more intensely painful night in Scully’s apartment, busying myself with removing all evidence of myself from the rooms I had inhabited for over three months. With uncharacteristic domesticity I washed and changed the bed, opting to lie on the sofa instead because frankly it seemed like a less painful option at the time. I left early the next morning after a sleepless night where my mind tortured me with everything that we had shared that could now be neither celebrated nor regained.

I was halfway back to my own apartment when Maggie Scully rang, begging me to reconsider my decision to keep Scully unaware of what we had shared these last few months, to pretend it had never happened at all. But even as something withered and died inside of me I refused, knowing implicitly that this was the only way to hope to give Scully any chance of being to reconcile everything she knew. To add another dimension to it, to add to her burden of knowledge as to what had already been taken from her was unthinkable and I could only imagine the damage it would do.

I think deep down, Maggie knew it too; because she didn’t ask me again. Nor did she in any way betray my confidence to her daughter.

And that was pretty much that. Scully underwent a psych screen at Skinner’s insistence, which she passed with flying colours and just five days later returned to work. Our days are spent carefully stepping around each other even though to the casual observer it might appear that nothing has changed. We still work well together, our partnership - at least the professional aspects of it - remain intact. We have been out in the field this week, investigating a particularly gruesome case of a homeless man found impaled to a tree by the sharpened point of an Old Testament style scythe. Very grim reaper and under normal circumstances I would have enjoyed getting my teeth in to a new case. 

But I’m actually finding that it’s really getting to me.

Scully of course has remained impassive. It’s her normal state these days.

But tonight, just as I drifted in to an uneasy sleep, after unsuccessfully trying to clear my mind of visions of her, the sound of her crying woke me up.

Maybe she has forgotten just how flimsy motel walls are, maybe she had briefly imagined she was at home, but whatever it was, the sound immediately made me shake off any misgivings I might have had and without hesitation I padded across to the connecting door that, as was our habit after so many years together, we didn’t bother to lock. 

I opened it softly, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness within although the moonlight that penetrated the flimsy curtains afforded me the dimly shadowed view of Scully, laid on her side facing away from me, knees drawn against her body in classic defensive posture as her hands covered her eyes, pressing in to her forehead as her body shook with the intensity of her sobbing. 

And at this point I am unsure as to whether she is caught in the grip of a nightmare or wide awake. But it doesn’t matter.

All that matters is that I make it stop.

“Scully?”

Her head turns towards the sound of my voice but even as her breath hitches in her chest, attempting to still the crying to enable her to speak, she attempts to deny me access.

“Leave me alone Mulder.”

Her voice is muffled but the desperate need for comfort is too great for her to be able to mask it completely. And I swallow heavily as I suddenly find myself hardly able to breath, a combination of absolute devastating sadness and raw animalistic anger that they did this to her. Maybe the easy way would be to do what she is asking – to be left alone to face her demons alone. But she is a part of me now and I can no longer allow her to keep pushing me away; because if I do I will lose her as surely as if she had died at her own hand as I had feared just weeks ago.

Because I love her completely; a love that will burn forever within me and even though in some ways I have lost her, I refuse to let her lose herself.

So I ignore her words and cross the few feet that separate us. Bridging the gap she tries so hard to maintain, and then I am on the bed, spooning my body around hers in a wholly protective gesture, just as I did when she was dying, wrapping my arms around her, enveloping her completely in my embrace and even though she goes completely rigid for a second, within the space of a heartbeat all her resistance falls away as she finally breaks down.

“They stole my life Mulder”

And I draw her in closer, kissing her cheek gently, her hair tickling my lips, feeling the tears on her skin mingling with my own. 

Because I know. 

Oh yeah I know.

Continued chapter 3


	16. Part 3 chapter 3

PART THREE

CHAPTER THREE

 

It took me a few moments to re-orientate myself when I woke up, not least because of the feeling of Mulders body curving around mine. His arms were loosely embracing me, his fingers brushing against the bare skin at my midriff where the soft jersey vest I had worn to bed had ridden up slightly. I could feel his breath, warm and even on the back of my neck and the rhythm and intensity told me immediately that he was sleeping. 

And I should have felt uncomfortable to have him in my bed, especially like this; holding me in such an excruciatingly intimate way, his morning erection all too obvious as he slept against me. But all I actually felt was a sense of belonging, a deep sense of peace, that this was exactly where he should be. The feeling of him against me was like coming home from a long journey and for the first time in weeks I felt safe; protected; whole.

Because everything about this situation suddenly seems so familiar somehow and yet I know it can’t be. Mulder has held me before of course. I have felt his arms around me countless times when one or both of us have found the ground pulled out from under us. We both know through painful experience how to prevent each other from falling. And I have, over the years come to rely on him to pull me back when I am heading towards the brink, to know instinctively just how much or little he needs to offer me in so that I might be able to keep going, to dust myself off and carry on.

But this seems different somehow. Like a hazy memory suspended on a thread of gossamer silk that can be held on to for a mere moment in time before it cuts loose and floats away. The thought makes me squeeze me eyes shut, because I don’t want this to end, I need to revel in this feeling for a while longer, if only to affirm to myself that he is actually here with me, allowing me to feel, for the first time, that the world is real once again.

I have refused to speak to him regarding the events of the preceding months – because how do I even start? I have no concept whatsoever of what I went through, or most crucially, what he went through. I have tried and tried to remember; frustrated to the point of tears as night after night I try to force myself to recall even one small detail of how the recurrence of the cancer affected us both.

I’ve read the medical files of course, my analytical doctor’s brain assimilating and processing the information that is neatly and thoroughly catalogued as a tangible reminder of the last seven months. But as I read them, I felt absolutely nothing; the words within held no meaning to me and it were as though they belonged to someone else. In fact the only time I felt a small jolt was when I saw Mulders signature regarding his agreed guardianship of the morphine and his acknowledgment of the accepted method of dispensing it to me via intravenous injection. It was something I hadn’t ever considered before – that it had been Mulder who had taken on the majority of my care as I steadily declined in front of him and just for a second I had felt an almost slavish gratitude towards him that he had been able to support me in such a monumental way. And then the feeling had gone as I struggled against the feeling of betrayal I felt that the memories, no matter how painful they might have been, had been stolen from me.

There was a small part of me that was glad I didn’t remember. But I was aware that it was simply my minds way of trying to protect myself from the reality of the situation, a way of trying to persuade myself that none of it had ever happened, denying to myself and to Mulder that the last seven months had even existed at all.

 

But it was hard, impossible even, because every time I looked at him I saw those terrible months reflected in his eyes. And the toll they have taken on him. I know he loves me. I’ve known for the longest time and I can only imagine what he went through as he watched me dying slowly for the second time. And as much as it hurts me to admit it, I need that affirmation that he loved me enough to stay by my side throughout. The thought makes me a little ashamed also, because having read the files I know I should be thanking God that I am still here, that I am still around to even ask him anything at all. But I can’t. I just can’t bring myself to add to the pain that radiates from him, a pain so intense that I’m not sure how long he will be able to bear it before he shatters.

I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the scars that stand out raised and ridged against the skin of his hand and the fact that my bathroom cabinet is now just a cabinet and no longer a mirror, tells me everything I need to know about how my illness affected him; is still affecting him now. The way he looks at me when he thinks I don’t notice, his eyes wounded, far away with memories that refuse to quieten, plaguing his soul even as he tries to hide them from me. And something else, something hidden so deeply in those ever changing depths that I can’t see far enough inside of him enough to quite fathom it.

Mulder is a complex man, a curious mixture of kindness, strength and aching vulnerability and he has laid bare every aspect of his personality to me at one point or another. But this is different. This is something I’ve never seen before. And it haunts me that I may have caused it in some small way. That he is hiding something from me that is slowly eating away at him.

It was partly the reason I couldn’t hold the tears back last night, because even though I am fully aware that much has been taken from me, I am also somehow aware that Mulder has lost something too. Something so painful he has pushed it deep inside of him, refusing to share it with anyone; least of all me.

And so I had cried, cried for both of us, for everything that has been taken from us on this journey in to darkness that seems to have no end and no reason; unsurprised when he came to me, drawn to the sound like a moth to a flame, needing to make me stop hurting just as he has always tried to heal me in the past. Almost against my will I had tried to deny him, falling back on habits that have taken a lifetime to form and which are now just as damaging as the events that created them. But for once, he had ignored my plea, I think needing the contact as much as I did. That to deny it would be to deny our friendship, a deep abiding friendship that has weathered every storm and somehow continues to endure.

This man is a part of me. A part of who I am and I think I would die without him.

I don’t know how long we laid there, neither of us seeking to escape the confines of the embrace, and I couldn’t speak as he gently wiped my tears and softly traced patterns along my forearm, quietening me, chasing the shadows away, holding them at bay even just for a short time. Healing me in tiny increments just by the power of his touch while the strangest sensation of familiarity crept over me, a feeling of déjà vu so strong it actually made me gasp out loud. Mulder had immediately tensed, as though realising the position we were now in and how potentially dangerous it could be. His grip on me had loosened slightly and as I had felt him raging an internal battle with himself, my heart began to beat with a ferocity that almost stole my breath from me as his whispered words reached me.

“I’m sorry Scully. I should go...”

And I think he was as surprised as I was when I clutched on to his forearms and crossed them firmly beneath my breasts, drawing him even more tightly toward me; Holding on to him as though without him to ground me I would simply fly away. I don’t really know what I was thinking other than if I allowed him to break this connection it might never be regained, the prospect bringing a flood of fresh tears unbidden to burn my swollen eyes.

“Please don’t.”

And whatever misgivings he might have had were pushed away as he dropped his head back on to the pillow, his breath once more gently stirring the hair at the nape of my neck, gentling me with his touch, with his presence. The essence of Fox Mulder that is so much a part of me I can’t even describe exactly what it is.

But he had stayed. And I drifted in to sleep feeling safe for the first time since that terrifying day when my world tilted sharply and my reality blurred; because this was real. He was real. 

Now as I lie here, protected in his embrace, watching as the first vestiges of sunlight start to filter through in to the small drab room I know with a certainty that overwhelms me with its clarity that somehow, somewhere in another time and another place, we have shared this moment before. That my heart remembers what my mind cannot, an echo of the past that is merely a whisper of forgotten incidence, speaking to me of a truth I’m not yet ready to understand.

 

The thought is fleeting, hovering as I am on the edges of sleep and I allow myself to relax back in to Mulder who, unconsciously draws me closer to him, the feel of his lips caressing that sweetest of spots just below my pulse point, feeling the way his breath warms my neck. And my last conscious thought is one of easy familiarity as I drift once more in to nothingness. That something intrinsically wonderful is being regained even as we sleep, and when I next awaken, blinking at the bright sunlight that now fills the room, Mulder is gone.

But that’s okay because for the first time since I returned I feel complete.

Continued chapter 4


	17. Part 3 chapter 4

PART THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

 

The X-File, as it soon turned out, wasn’t an X-File at all. As gruesome and other-worldly as it had first appeared, it soon became clear that the murder was as a direct result of a long running feud between the murder victim and the scythe wielder who was aptly named ‘Big Ron’. Almost 7 feet of immense brawn but only limited brain, he would clearly have had no trouble in driving the scythe through Barry Ludlow’s slight body. Why a scythe was anyone’s guess and really, it wasn’t our problem anymore. Maybe he used to be an extra in the Hammer films. I didn’t know and certainly haven’t wasted time on it because right now I have more important things on my mind.

Because in typical Mulder fashion, he had insisted on being there to see the suspect apprehended. I don’t know why, other than I understand how his brain works and he always likes to dot the ‘i’s and cross the ‘t’s before we leave and I think on some level he was a little disappointed that such a promising case had come to nothing. I’m surprised he hasn’t got used to it over the years though because while it cannot be denied that many of our cases have been downright perplexing in nature or as Mulder once so succinctly put it, have emitted a distinct paranormal bouquet, a good chunk of them have had explanations of the much more mundane. 

The local PD had attended of course and as was often the case, they were poorly briefed and even less prepared to execute a warrant on such a potentially explosive situation.

Big Ron as it turned out had no intention of coming quietly and if he was going down, he was determined to take a few with him. Mulder unfortunately being one of them and I had watched with mounting horror as his immense weight connected solidly with my partner, knocking him off his feet and sending him crashing head first in to a solid, cinderblock wall; the sound as his skull made contact making the nerve endings inside my cheeks fizz and burn as my mouth filled with a metallic taste that almost made me throw up right there and then. I had hung slightly behind him, acknowledging for once that sometimes, whether I liked it or not, the reality of a physical situation such as this one dictated that at least some caution on my part was required. Because all the combat training in the world will never make my slight 5 feet 2 inch frame any kind of match for the 7 feet of muscle and brawn we were faced with. 

As it turned out however, Mulder’s six foot frame was no match either and as his body hit the ground in that peculiar boneless fashion afforded to the deeply unconscious, I did exactly what I had been trained to do. I protected him from further harm, auto pilot kicking in as I saw the perp about to go in for the kill, raising his arm, the glint of the metal shaft all too visible in his hand. 

I gave him one opportunity. 

Just one. 

And then I put a bullet in him. It didn’t kill him although I think I would have been able to find justification, but it certainly rendered him harmless enough for the supporting officers to swarm all over the bastard and get the cuffs on him before he hurt anyone else.

And amidst the brief chaos that ensued as frantic calls were made for EMT s to attend, I had one goal and one goal only – to get to Mulder; and with the ferocity of a she cat guarding her offspring I flew across the fifteen or so feet that separated him from me, screaming at the attending officers to get the fuck out of my way. Highly unprofessional, extraordinarily unlike me and in truth, I’m not sure where it even came from. 

But it had the desired effect and I was still moving forwards even as I dropped to my knees beside him, my doctors’ mind quickly assimilating the necessary information as to his current condition. He was breathing at least and I sent up a silent ‘thank you’ to whoever might be listening , already loosening his tie enough to allow me to rip open his shirt, sending buttons popping in all directions, mentally running the checklist. Airway seemed clear, pulse was reasonably strong beneath my fingers and for one excruciating moment I remembered the feel of his lips whispering against my own pulse point earlier that morning, a feeling I rapidly shoved to the back of my mind. I was infinitely careful to not move him more than was absolutely necessary– the force of his collision with that wall could very well have caused spinal damage, a worse case scenario but one I had to be mindful of as I leaned in to him, speaking his name over and over, an attempt to reach him, to bring him out of it.

But it became frighteningly obvious that he was out cold. At least for the moment and instead I concentrated all my efforts on keeping him safe from being jolted or jostled in any way, lightly resting the palm of my hand over his heart, partly to let him know I was there and partly to let myself know that he still was.

 

XXXX

 

The journey to the local hospital seemed to take forever and I winced every time we hit a bump in the road, even the knowledge that Mulder was now securely strapped to a spinal board, heavy foam blocks taped to each side of his head didn’t reduce my anxiety levels even by a degree. It would be so much easier if he were conscious – his motor function would immediately speak to any serious damage – but he remained totally unresponsive to both verbal and physical stimulus. He had now been unconscious for almost an hour and my concern was racketing upwards with every minute that passed.

He’d had concussive injuries before – we both had – but generally we came out of them relatively quickly. But this time there was nothing. Not a flicker to tell me he was coming back to me and as I sat there gripping his hand tightly, I cursed myself internally that I had agreed to us being a part of an operation that was no longer in any way under our jurisdiction. I could have refused. I should have refused. But Mulder is pretty hard to deflect at the best of times and never more so that when he has an idea fixed in his head.

And then suddenly I felt his hand spasm briefly against mine, the merest grip of my fingers before it was gone and I immediately raised my head. His eyes were open wide, the pupils dilated and in truth he looked absolutely terrified. I couldn’t blame him – waking up from a concussion is never a pleasant experience and I knew from my own past injuries that he would be feeling horribly disorientated, nauseous, dizzy and confused. Add to that the fact that he was strapped down in such a way that only the slightest movement were possible and the giant sized headache he was no doubt suffering all added up to the very real potential to incite fierce panic within him; and so I reacted quickly, leaning over so he could easily see me in his limited field of vision, speaking clearly to him as I did so.

“Mulder. It’s okay. You were knocked out. But it’s okay....you’re okay...”

And while his pupils remained huge, almost obscuring the delicate shades of colour that made up his eyes, I was at least rewarded by just a flicker of recognition as he fought to regain some semblance of understanding as to his current situation. 

“Scully.”

His voice is weak, raspy; reminding me of the time he was found near death in the arctic wastes, the retro virus within him taking him right to the brink of death. So many years ago and yet here we were again, fighting another injury in another time. The thought forms a lump in my throat and for a second I can’t speak. So many times we have been here. 

Right here. 

Just trying to survive.

“Sshhh It’s okay” 

 

I want to touch his face, our standard go to when one of us is injured and an action I know will keep him calm, prevent him fighting against the restraints that hold him safe although I am pretty sure by his previous movement that there is no damage to his spine. But the blocks either side are preventing me, so I do the next best thing and brush his hair away from his forehead. The skin feels cold to my touch, a sure sign that he is, at least to some degree, in shock.

His eyes are beginning to close and I squeeze his hand again.

“Stay with me Mulder.”

Because now that he is awake I need him to stay that way. The EMTs are hovering beside us, but really there is nothing to be done until we reach the ER. He is awake and he is speaking. That is the best we can hope for now. 

“Was it the Ferris wheel?”

“What? Which Ferris wheel Mulder?”

He swallows briefly

“Did we fall?”  
I have no idea what his words mean, and I’m aware that his brain has taken a beating that probably makes this conversation perfectly reasonable to him. And because I need him to stay focused I play along.

“No Mulder we didn’t fall.”

“Mmmmm ‘K good.”

And he smiles lazily up at me, his eyes seem calmer now, his expression more serene; far away somehow.

“I kissed you in starlight.”

And suddenly my heart begins to beat painfully in my chest, aware of the curious glances being thrown at me from the EMT closest to us as I feel colour flood in to my face.

But despite my embarrassment I smile down at him because I see such wonderment in his expression, as though has been granted a glimpse in to heaven itself.

“Mulder....stay still okay”

He is trying to bring his hand up to my face but failing miserably because his visual perception is currently so screwed and knowing him like I do, knowing that he won’t rest until he has achieved his goal, I capture his hand in my own and bring towards me, pressing it to my cheek where he clumsily moves his thumb in rhythmic motion against my skin.

“Yeah I did. I kissed you in starlight.”

He smiles again

“You’re so beautiful Scully..”

And even as his eyelids start to flicker in exhaustion, I am overcome once again as that same sense of déjà vu comes flooding back.

The sounds of laughter

Of muted voices from far below

Of twinkling lights and deep velvety sky. 

Of Mulders face as he held me tight against him, his eyes soft and warm with love as he brought his lips to mine as he told me over and over that I was beautiful.

As the lights shined below and the sky unfolded eternal above.

As he kissed me in starlight.

 

Continued chapter five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in no way a medical professional but having owned and ridden horses for over thirty years I've had my share of concussions so I have drawn on my own experiences. Apologies for any inaccuracies.


	18. Part 3 chapter 5

PART THREE

CHAPTER FIVE

 

Mulder is sleeping and I take this opportunity to look at him, to really look at him for the first time since I was returned. I think I’ve been afraid to really see him, or more crucially to allow him to see me. But the events of yesterday have left me feeling more confused than I think I’ve ever been before and with our coloured history that is certainly going some.

*I kissed you in starlight*

I’m truthfully not sure if his words evoked a memory within me or whether somehow, they tapped in to a deep yearning I have tried so unsuccessfully to hide from myself for many years. Have I made connections that aren’t there at all? A way to fill in even a tiny space in the dark, empty chasm that has opened up since I once again received my miracle? Taken those softly spoken, beautiful words that he gifted to me and allowed them to have such meaning because I want so badly for them to be true?

I’ve tried so hard to not delve too deeply in to their reason for being. Because after all, Mulder was in a state of total confusion, disorientated and only a few degrees above the deeply unconscious state he had been in just prior to speaking them. I’ve seen it before – when he awoke after that frightening, foolhardy, ill advised and downright dangerous trip he took to Bermuda in search of a ship that existed only in his mind – a ghost ship filled with echoes of the past but one which, to him, felt as real as I had when I had stood over his bed. I can still feel his eyes on me as he had suddenly locked them with mine, his pupils huge from the drugs they had pumped in to him to keep him sedated, to allow him to heal.

*I love you*

Words that I had dismissed so cruelly, even as I walked away from him. 

There have been many times since that night when I wished with everything I had that I could go back to that room; that I had taken the time to actually listen to him. To acknowledge the words that he only felt able to say when he was under a safe blanket of confusion, knowing that if I should dismiss him, he had some reasoning to fall back on; to laugh it off, to pretend it didn’t mean anything. When, to Mulder I think it had meant everything.

And I *had* dismissed him; in the cruellest way possible I had thrown those words carelessly back at him without even really acknowledging them at all; had refused to give credence to a proclamation that I had waited for so long to hear. Words I had so wanted to believe but was just too afraid.

Afraid of what exactly though, I was less sure.

Because despite years of procrastination on both our parts, the one thing I am certain of is that I love him. With my heart and soul, with all that I am and all that I might one day be, I love him. That has never been in question. It will never be in question. I would die for him.

And as I watch him sleep, his beautiful face relaxed in a way it never is in his waking hours, I am suddenly gripped with a yearning so intense I actually stop breathing for a few seconds. Because I so want it to be true. Even if it had never amounted to anything, I want to know that on one night, when he was afraid I was being taken away from him, on one starlit night, he had held me in his arms and he had kissed me. That this one memory had survived despite so many others taken. That what I think I remember has form and substance – that it is more than just imagined words.

Maybe I will ask him when he finally awakens.

And the thought makes me smile ruefully, because it’s easy to imagine myself doing just that. Making promises to myself because I am of course, infinitely brave when he is sleeping. I am able to devour him with my eyes when he isn’t aware of me observing him, and I can let my guard down safe in the knowledge that he doesn’t see the desperate longing that must surely radiate from me, slamming my walls back in place the minute he opens his eyes. It’s a pattern that has repeated over and over for longer than I care to remember and I wish I could just tell him how I feel.

But I can’t. 

Because I’m too afraid that by doing so, we will risk losing what we have.

Or that he will be taken away from me if I allow myself to love him too much; because happiness is always for others; never for us. And that knowledge of what can never be destroys me just a little more each day.

I could have lost him yesterday; his presence in my life just gone at the hands of a murderous bastard who was consumed with a need to meter out some justice of his own and that thought makes me go cold; just as I’ve gone cold a hundred times before. 

But as it turned out, he had got off fairly lightly; if a severe concussion and a nasty case of whiplash could be classed as light. There was a huge, egg sized lump to the left side of his head and the eye that corresponded was bloodshot, contrasting nicely with the bruise that had begun to bloom around the socket within an hour or so of us reaching the ER. He had stayed conscious for the most part, occasionally drifting away but always brought back by the sound of his name being spoken. But being conscious didn’t give him any real measure of lucidity and I was appalled as his subconscious allowed him to play out some of the fears he had surely kept locked away since the manifestation of my cancer had arrived once again to cruelly blight our lives for a second time.

There were no more declarations of love. No more starlight. Just raw, heartbreaking emotion as he implored me over and over to not leave him, to stay with him forever and I knew with a certainty that I couldn’t explain that when he looked at me, he was seeing an entirely different persona to the one who sat by him and soothed him as best she could. This version was the version that Mulder had locked inside his head – the version that was slowly but surely deteriorating before his eyes, tearing him apart inside as he refused to accept the inevitable.

It was hard to watch, harder still to reconcile it in my own mind since the visions that plagued him in his delirium didn’t even begin to resonate with me, but despite that, watching him fighting his demons broke my heart, because if I couldn’t remember any of it, how in hell could I ever hope to make things better for him? And more than once he had to be prevented from getting up out of bed to fight this foe only he could see, becoming just violent enough to require the brief use of restraints until he eventually gave up his fight and he just lay there, softly moaning in pain as the tears ran unchecked and constant down his face.

I knew about head injuries. I knew that the violence and the delirium were all to be expected. But it was still shocking to see him like that, such desperate sorrow that seemed destined to tear him to pieces in front of my eyes but as he eventually quieted I was able to finally comfort him, to whisper affirmation that I was still here; that I wasn’t going anywhere, gentling him with my touch, with my voice.

And finally he slept. Fitful at first with many small awakenings where he whimpered weakly, turning tortured eyes on me, but not really seeing me.

Through past experience of such a severe blow to the head, I knew the pain he was experiencing would be immense. But until the worst had passed, until the medical staff was able to ascertain without a shadow of a doubt that he was stable, that there was no chance of swelling or subdural haemorrhage, only very basic pain relief could be administered. Anything stronger could potentially mask any new symptoms and so as hard and painful as it was, he had just had to ride it out.

As the hours went by though, he began to find a semblance of peace; seemingly more aware of his surroundings each time he awoke. Until eventually he had been deemed sufficiently out of danger to be administered the good stuff. The relief on his face as the morphine kicked in was so apparent that I felt my throat tighten at the knowledge that for now at least, he could rest comfortably, the realisation not lost on me that just a few short weeks ago, it would have been Mulder experiencing similar emotions as he used the same pain relief techniques on me. 

Because he has always hated to see me in pain; as much as he tries to hide his concern for me lest I think he sees me as less of an equal, seeing me in pain breaks him up.

But for now at least, he is resting. No doubt exhausted by the battering his system has had to endure since he was thrown across the room; less than twenty four hours ago and which, for Mulder, has probably felt like days.

He is stirring slightly beside me and I lean forward again as I have done countless times during this night which seems never ending, ignoring the way my back protests after so many hours spent sat cramped and hunched beside him. A vigil I adamantly refuse to break despite the many attempts of the hospital staff to entice me from the room with visions of food and coffee and promises of instant phone calls should he need me. But I won’t be persuaded. I stay with him for the same reasons that, given an identical set of circumstances, he would stay with me – because I am a part of him. Our journey together has made it so; and right from the very beginning, if one was injured, the other kept watch. It’s just how it is and how it has always been.

And I stay because I need to be the first person he sees when he opens his eyes. Mulder has been abandoned by so many people who professed to care about him throughout his life and I refuse to add myself to the list regardless of time or circumstance. If he needs me I will be there because in this complicated world we have created for ourselves, that most basic of instinct – to keep him safe – is possibly the simplest and easiest action I can ever take.

I’ve taken my reward over and over as the years have passed us by, the reward of knowing that when he wakes up he knows I will be there beside him. Tonight is no exception and I smile across at him as he once again shows me a glimpse of those incredible eyes, eyes that are, at this moment in time, staring straight at me although slightly unfocused still.

“Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

Mulder blinks once, in a clear attempt to get his slightly jumbled thoughts in to some kind of rational order.

“Mmmmm ok; my head hurts.”

I nod. It’s pretty much been his standard response for the last half dozen or so times he has briefly awoken.

“I know. You took quite a knock there G Man.”

The endearment earns me a smile and I begin to run through the standard questions, the same way I have each time he has come back. 

Where are you? Do you know your name? What year is it? What did you eat for breakfast? 

And am gratified that for the first time he answers with only the merest hesitation, only stumbling slightly over the breakfast question, frowning as he drags his mind back.

“Ummm bagels....yeah bagels. Plain for me; cream cheese for you.”

I feel intense relief. His most detailed answer yet and I decided to play with him a little.

“Ah but was it real cream cheese Mulder?”

“Always Scully.”

His words are becoming slightly slurred as his eyes become heavy again, prompting me to lean closer to him, intending to brush his hair from his forehead, needing to touch him, just to affirm that he is real, that he has survived once again. And as I get closer he suddenly reaches his arm up around my back, resting his hand on my neck, drawing me towards him and it feels so right, so damn familiar that I don’t resist. Even as he presses his lips to mine, the feel of them warm and dry and so achingly exquisite I don’t resist. 

Because this is right. 

And I think it might be at that exact moment that I start to remember.

 

Continued chapter 6


	19. Part 3 chapter 6

PART THREE

CHAPTER SIX

 

I’m not relishing the drive home. Flying is decidedly out of the question because although Mulder would probably be absolutely fine at high altitude, there is a small chance he wouldn’t be and frankly, it’s not a risk I’m prepared to take. He argued his case of course. Mulder hates admitting weakness but he quickly had the good sense to realise that I wasn’t kidding on this. In fact all it took from me was one look, just one look and he simply threw me a goofy grin and shrugged apologetically in accession. 

He looks horrendous, tired and used up which, now I think about it, probably has less to do with his head injury and more to do with what he’s gone through over the last seven months or so. And to be fair, there is nothing I would like more than to hop on a plane with him and get the hell home as quickly as I can, but like I say, I’m not prepared to take the risk. 

The prospect of an eleven hour drive across three states, almost seven hundred miles in a rental car that will probably have dubious air conditioning and even more dubious upholstery fills me with exhaustion. But unless we are prepared to sit around enjoying the sights of Tennessee for the next seven days, our options are pretty limited. I’m hoping to make the drive in one chunk, with a few necessary stops on the way. Eleven hours which will no doubt wind up being closer to thirteen by the time we’ve stopped for food and restroom breaks. I can’t remember when I have been faced with such a daunting drive. 

But the pull of home is strong and so I will dig deep as always and plough right ahead.

I left him in the hospital last night. The first time in three days I have allowed myself to leave his side for more than a few minutes, finally accepting of the fact that he was okay; that no lasting damage has been done. He slept a lot. His body needing to recuperate from his injury and I have discovered over the years that, with injuries such as these, that there is no amount of medication that can ever work the same magic sleep can bring.

He’s the lucky one though because I have barely slept at all and when I have, I have dreamed of him.

Fitful dreams where I imagine his hands soft on my body, his lips caressing, teasing me in my most intimate places. The feel of his breath on me and the sweat that sheens our skin as our bodies meld in to one. And the feeling, the most intense feelings I think I have ever experienced that this is what love actually feels like.

Absolute, all encompassing, fathomless love that has no beginning or end; love that transcends anything that can be found on any plane that I have previously known. And there are no words to describe how it makes me feel. Only that it evokes such a strong reaction from me that I wake up breathless, heart pounding against my chest in perfect synchronisation with the pulse that beats incessantly at my very core.

It’s an almost panicked feeling – waking up like this and seeing him on the hospital bed in front of me, knowing I almost lost him again – a heightened sense of consciousness that refuses to be quietened even as I feel such uncertainty as to whether what I am feeling is a memory or simply a dream. But it feels so real to me and even as I snap back in to reality, the memories, the physical reactions are still at the very forefront of my mind; insistent and ever present, refusing to be buried as I have buried so much in the past where this man is concerned.

 

I don’t think he has any recollection of the kiss we shared right here in this room, a gentle, affirming kiss that awakened something in me I thought was lost, a truth that I am beginning to fear he has hidden from me. Or at least that’s how it feels. But he hasn’t mentioned it since and so, with a quiet disavowal so typical of me, I haven’t mentioned it either.

But on several occasions I have felt his eyes on me when he thinks I am sleeping, head awkwardly pillowed on my arms, turned away from him as I hover on the fringes of a sweet oblivion that seems hard to come by at the moment. And a couple of times I have awoken with a start to feel his fingers in my hair, teasing softly, stroking me back to sleep. Knowing he is watching me, fearful somehow of allowing me to put thought in to substance. Because he knows something is going on with me. Oh yeah he knows because I can’t hide what is surely showing on my face when I bolt awake time after time in front of him.

But more and more there is a voice that keeps whispering to me, insistent and unrelenting that in recent history Mulder and I shared something that transcended mere friendship and whether it were just a mere moment in time or something much bigger, more meaningful, I am finding myself more and more desperate to know exactly what. Because I don’t think I can hide it from him for very much longer without completely breaking down because as hard and as emotionally exhausting as the last few weeks have been, what is happening to me now is far more so and I am starting to feel drained, tearful even with the fear that there is something he isn’t telling me.

The flip side to all this of course is an equally insistent voice that taunts me with the potential that I am wrong. That this is nothing more than a product of my imagination – my heart desperate to fill the gaps in my memory with something real, something I desperately want and have wanted for so many years and that all this is no more substantial than a wisp of smoke that curls lazily upwards, visible for just a heartbeat before disappearing in to the ether. 

The blindingly simple solution, as I very well know is to just ask him. And if it were only so simple I would no doubt do just that; but how to even broach such a thing? How to find adequate words to even ask a question that could broker an answer that has the power to change everything, to alter my perceptions of our relationship, that it just blows my mind. 

I can just imagine it.

*So Mulder; just to clarify, did we happen to fuck whilst I was dying again? And if we did, was it a pity fuck or did it actually mean something?*

And even though I can’t find a whole lot of humour in this situation, the thought of Mulders expression should he ever be faced with me asking him something in such a coarse and inelegant way, briefly brings a smile to my face. The moment is quickly gone though as he walks in to the room. Fully dressed and waving discharge paperwork at me.

“I’m a free man Scully. Sound in body if a little unsteady in mind....”

He looks like shit and not for the first time I wonder if he is being discharged too early.

“Are you sure you’re okay to do this Mulder? One more day isn’t going to hurt.”

But he just smiles at me, a smile that belies the paleness of his complexion, the livid bruise that still stands out sharply against his pallid skin and drops a warm hand to rest in the small of my back. It’s an action he has performed hundreds of times throughout our partnership and one that initially caused me a certain amount of irritation stemming from the fact that it seemed wholly territorial on his part, as though he had taken ownership of me. But I soon came to realise and appreciate that it was simply his way of keeping himself connected to me, affirming to himself that he was no longer alone; that he had someone to rely on for probably the first time in his life. That finally, someone had his back. And over the years the feeling has become as familiar and comfortable to me in that only an action born out of a deep abiding friendship could ever hope to do. It stopped feeling territorial a very long time ago.

“I’m fine Scully. Let’s get out of here.”

 

XXXX

 

The drive as it turned out, was a nightmare right from the start. It came as no surprise that my fears regarding the air con had in no way been groundless and we quickly found that we had two options – suffocating heat or bone chilling, frigid air – unless of course we opted for the good old fashioned fall back of opening the windows to allow the cooler air inside. That would have been okay if it weren’t for the fact that in doing so, the car rapidly filled with a combination of diesel and exhaust fumes from the never ending traffic that clogged the interstate and which swiftly rendered Mulder a not very fetching and extremely sickly shade of green.

Which brought me neatly around to the fact that in actuality, my misgivings about my partner being well enough to make the long journey by road had also been in no way groundless. Because clearly, he was in no shape to be doing this and while he could deny it all he wanted, I only had to glance at his feverish face and half-closed eyes to know that there was no way on this earth that he was going to last the distance; or even half the distance for that matter.

I had already started scanning the motel signs that periodically flashed passed us on the roadside for one that looked like it might be a decent place to check in to for the night to enable Mulder to rest sufficiently to continue the journey tomorrow. We had made reasonably decent time, with a little under 300 miles covered, but more and more it was becoming obvious that it was time to stop. That to carry on for no real reason was both foolhardy and potentially damaging to him because out of danger he might very well be, but fully out of the woods he certainly wasn’t and I just couldn’t see the sense in pushing too hard.

He hadn’t really been fully with me for the last half an hour or so, ever since he had suddenly and urgently directed me to pull over, when, as soon as we came to a stand he had stumbled his way out of the passenger door and lost whatever precarious hold he had managed to maintain on the meagre contents of his stomach during the journey so far. By the time I reached him he was on his hands and knees, breathing heavily with his eyes tightly closed against the glare from the mid afternoon sun that bounced up from the road surface; deathly pale and shaky, despite the sweat that beaded his forehead and darkened his hair.

And he hadn’t said a single fucking thing about it in the car. In fact I’d thought he was sleeping.

Damn it; why hadn’t he told me how bad he was feeling? And in truth at times like these I could quite cheerfully murder him. 

“Tell me” I ordered sharply. 

“Headache. Bad. Really bad.” His answer hissed painfully through clenched teeth.

“Oh Mulder.” 

The words came out of my mouth on the back of a sigh because I knew if he were prepared to actually voice the severity, that the headache must be very bad indeed. 

“I’m going to find somewhere for us to stop for the night.”

And even more worryingly, he hadn’t made any attempt to argue and my concern for him began to creep steadily upwards.

 

XXXX

 

I’d left Mulder sleeping in the large and seemingly extremely comfortable bed that dominated the sparsely furnished but scrupulously clean room I had booked us in to when finally, we had found our way off the interstate to this small but well appointed campsite-come-lakeside retreat. It seemed just slightly more upmarket than many of the places we usually found ourselves in – the grounds were well maintained, as was the cabin itself, the bed linens clean and crisp and the shower seemed to have an unlimited supply of hot water that actually had enough pressure behind it to pleasantly pummel the kinks out of my neck and shoulders that driving for so many hours had evoked. And even better it was set up as a ‘family’ room. One large bed and a smaller single that was tucked away behind a small curtained alcove just to the left of the room; a little cramped maybe but I had slept in much smaller spaces and to be honest, I was so tired I think I could probably have slept on a clothesline. 

In fairness I would have preferred connecting rooms, but they didn’t have such a thing and given Mulders current condition, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him completely alone. So the family room had seemed like the next best thing.

Immediately we had checked in he had collapsed on the bed and despite the fact I wanted nothing more than for him to get some rest, to sleep off the headache that had clearly worsened, rendering him a sweating, shaking mess, I knew that he needed checking out first.  
His temperature of 100.2 was elevated but not significantly so and was probably more in response to his headache than anything else. His pulse though was a little rapid and his breathing a little shallow and was a slightly more worrying reaction to the pain but even so I was pretty sure it wasn’t due to anything more sinister than that. His pupils when I checked were equally responsive to light and he tracked the end of my finger with no apparent problems. So I had watched him swallow two diclofenac capsules before I pushed him gently backwards on to the soft pillows and laid a damp washcloth across his forehead, marvelling that for once he didn’t argue with me. 

“Will I live?”

And I couldn’t help but smile because when he is sick he has a strangely endearing quality that reminds me of a little kid.

“You’ll live Mulder. I’m pretty sure at least. Now go to sleep.”

His eyes are closing though even before I’ve finished speaking and I’m reminded once again that the last few days have been physically draining for him. I should have insisted we delayed the trip home for a day or two. I don’t know why I didn’t; and I think it’s a combination of guilt and relief that makes me lift his hand and press my lips to his palm, causing him to open his eyes momentarily in surprise. It’s a look that once may have made me feel embarrassed, embarrassed that he had found a chink in my armour but now it just feels natural; normal even.

“Go to sleep” I repeat and this time his eyes close and remain that way.

 

XXXX

 

By the time I had showered, changed clothes and taken a trip to the small homely diner that is attached to the site where I stocked up on a few provisions for us since food had been pretty scarce so far today, I was fully awake once more and the nap I had promised myself earlier was fast losing its appeal. It’s a beautiful late April evening and after checking Mulder was still sleeping, I paused only to re-apply the damp washcloth to his forehead before I grabbed one of the sandwiches I had bought and headed outside. Every cabin had a small lawned area just in front and a wooden picnic table for al fresco dining and since the cabins were set out in a horseshoe formation, individually bordered by a low hedge, each one felt private and separate from the other. They also afforded an unrestricted view over the lake and I was more than content to just sit here and let myself drift because despite the conflicts that had crowded my mind over the last few days, sitting here watching the sun setting on the horizon as it tinged the tree tops a beautiful, vibrant orange, I felt more relaxed than I had in days; maybe even weeks. And suddenly I am tired, so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. I should probably go back inside and go to bed, but it just seems like too much effort to move so instead I cross my arms on to the smooth wooden surface of the picnic table and lower my head on to them. 

I’m not sure how long I slept, but the first conscious thought I have upon waking is that the temperature has dropped significantly and that I am cold, but even as a shiver works its way up my spine, something heavy and warm is draped around my shoulders and a warm hand rests gently on the back of my neck.

Mulder.

I immediately sit upright and twist around to get a better look at him, concern for him overriding my need to just close my eyes again and drift back to sleep. He smiles at me and it’s clear without needing to scrutinise him that he is feeling better. His eyes are clear in the moonlight and it seems he has showered and changed while I have been sleeping. His hair is slightly damp and I know I should admonish him for not drying it but I suddenly find that I am so pleased to see him looking so normal that I just haven’t the heart.

“How are you feeling?”

He sits beside me then and faces me, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear and adjusting the blanket back in to position from where it has fallen off one shoulder due to my sudden movement.

“Better. Much. I’ve eaten and everything.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after ten o’clock”

And I am a little shocked that I have slept out here for so long although it certainly explains why my neck and shoulders feel so stiff. I hadn’t realised when I first woke up but now, I find to my dismay that moving my head too far to the right causes stiff shooting pains to slice down my back. Driving tomorrow is going to be even more miserable than it was today it would seem. Mulder frowns at me as I bring an arm out from the warm blanket he has wrapped around me and tentatively probe the length of my neck, searching for the knot that is causing the stiffness, wincing as I locate it right where my shoulders curve upwards and it’s position makes it a little awkward to get to, the angle my hand needs to be in just a little too acute.

Mulder doesn’t speak; he just straddles one long leg over the bench seat so that his body as now facing sideways and indicates I do the same, and I almost refuse, with typical reticence I almost refuse. But almost without thinking, I turn away, my position mirroring his and even though I’m expecting it, the feeling of his long fingers brushing over my skin, kneading gently as he works on the knots that have bunched up my muscles is so exquisite I have to force myself to not start purring like a cat.

Because the feel of him is so damn good I’m in danger of unravelling right there in front of him and I know that this level of expertise is no happy accident, that this man knows my body; knows it in the most intimate way. And this sudden revelation finally gives me a courage I have been lacking for days.

“Mulder?”

“Yeah? What’s wrong? Should I stop?”

*Jesus no. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop*

“What happened between us when I was sick?” 

Just for a moment, his movement stills making me wish I could pull the words back in and my heart is suddenly beating so hard that I feel like I’m about to pass out; until his arms slide over my shoulders, crossing over and resting comfortably beneath my breasts as he pulls me backwards to rest against his chest, dropping his face in to my hair, breathing me in and when he answers, is voice is a soft as a summer breeze.

“You know what happened Scully. We happened. I think maybe we still are.”

And a wave of emotion, of a realisation so intense it takes my breath away comes crashing over me, rendering me frozen in his embrace, because for all the times I have dreamed of this moment, never daring that it might ever come to life, I feel an intense, painful sadness that so much more was taken from us than I had ever suspected. And I don’t know how I will bear it.

Continued Part Four


	20. Part 4 Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desire will fuel the weakest flame

PROLOGUE

 

I hold her tightly against me, arms crossed around her as I breathe in her familiar scent, and I am all too aware that for Scully, the battle within is still raging. I wish it were so simple for her as finally acknowledging that what we shared, what she has retained against all the odds is real. But with knowledge comes pain and for her, the pain of knowing that the memory of something so precious, so deeply personal has been taken from her must be excruciating. It’s the reason I couldn’t be the one to tell her outright and while it has become clear to me over the last few days that her subconscious had held on to snippets of the few short months we spent together, finally loving each other in the way I think we were always destined to, the knowledge that much of it is lost to her, will forever cloud what might come next.

Because those weeks and months of loving her can never be repeated; each small memory unique and unequalled in their position in our lives; and while I will forever remember them, remember the sweet feeling of togetherness and the infinitely painful knowledge that what we had finally found within ourselves wasn’t ours to keep for long, that it was simply a gift to be cherished, a bright light amidst the darkness that slowly crept up on us, she will not.

Those memories have been forever taken and I’m amazed that she has even retained as much as she has. But in some ways I wish she hadn’t remembered any of it. Because I know Scully; I know that the missing pieces of our love for each other will eat her up inside and even if I tried to find words to explain how it was with us, I know I will fail. Because how can I hope to explain something so infinitely precious that I have no words to even begin to describe it? How can mere words ever be adequate to relate them to a perception of a single moment in time?

And even now, even though her fears, her regrets and her pain remain unspoken, I can feel it radiating from her; a force that is almost corporeal in its intensity. That knowing what she suspected was true has in no way lessened the feeling of betrayal that it has been taken from her.

Was the price for her too high? I don’t know and it’s a question I am afraid to ask myself, much less her; because to me, selfish rationalisation or not, the price to have her here with me could never be too great. But then, it’s easy for me to think that because I haven’t lost anything.

I don’t know how long we have sat here, under the inky black sky that, unmarred by the visual pollution of sodium streetlamps, gives us full benefit of the myriad of shining stars that make up our solar system, it’s not lost on me that a good proportion of those stars have already been extinguished and it’s only infinite time and space that have prevented that truth from being revealed to us yet. But if I were to take a picture and refer back to it in a week or a month or even years from now, the map of those stars would not be the same as they are tonight, bearing their own silent witness to me holding Scully in my arms as the scalding tears roll down her face. Tears that she thinks she is hiding from me. But I know. In much the same way I can always sense when she is thinking deeply about something, my heart also knows when she is hurting. 

I just don’t know how to ease her pain. 

So I just hold her against me and have to hope that it will be enough.

Her voice, when she finally speaks, is so small, so broken, that I just want to gather her against me and escape to a place, any place where we can’t be hurt anymore. Two imperfect souls who can only hope to seek absolution when they are joined as one.

“It’s so peaceful here. The stars are so beautiful.”

And the sound of her voice is enough for me to gently bring her body around so that I can see her pain, placing a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face upwards even as she resists, the uncertainty so clear in her eyes; eyes that are all pupil, the darkness making them seem like inky black pools of light. And as I slowly bring my lips to her forehead, grazing it gently before kissing my way softly down her velvety skin I feel her arms snake their way around my neck as she closes her eyes, tangling her fingers in my still damp hair, as I finally find my way to her mouth, running my tongue lightly over her bottom lip, asking permission even as she sighs and opens herself to me. And suddenly I feel like I am drowning in the sensation of her, kissing her deeply, so deeply as our breaths mingle and our senses dance, that I don’t think I will ever manage to let her go. And for that brief delicious moment in time, everything ceases to exist for me except the feeling of our tongues exploring, re-acquainting, remembering a night not so long ago when we were consumed in equal measure by both exquisite delirium and petrifying despair as we tried so hard to keep hold of a light that continued to fade even as we wished it never would.

But tonight, despite knowing that she is in no way healed in her mind, that the light is burning brightly again and that however hard it is, whatever it takes, I will help her get through this, to make her whole once more.

And as I draw away from her slightly, releasing her enough to cup my palms around her face, I make her look at me, to see what I see when I kissed her; rewarded as she smiles in response to my whispered words, a smile that lights up her face and chases the shadows away.

“I kissed you in starlight Scully”

 

Continued chapter 1


	21. Part 4 chapter 1

PART FOUR

CHAPTER ONE

 

We made the remainder of the trip back to DC without further head-injury-induced incidents. In fact, we made it back to DC without really anything at all.

We had finally left our position by the lake and returned to the warmth of the cabin and while Scully had seemed a little quiet, even introspective, I didn’t really think too much of it. I put it down to the emotional rollercoaster she had spent the last few weeks riding around and around without the benefit of a safety harness, not to mention the punishing days and nights she had spent keeping vigil over me and the egg sized lump that was still visible through my hair. 

By unspoken agreement we both wound up in the king size bed. Scully’s curtained alcove and small single was downgraded unceremoniously to a place to dump our luggage and I spent the next six or so hours with my arms wrapped around her feigning sleep as right beside me she did exactly the same. I wondered briefly if she was pissed that I hadn’t made any kind of move on her; but I quickly nixed the idea. Scully is a doctor, none practising sure but a doctor nonetheless and she is as adept at reading my state of health as she is at cataloguing the stomach contents of a recently deceased stiff, right down to individual pizza topping and whether they had a preference for thick crust or thin and crispy. And given the magnitude of the headache I’d experienced earlier which still echoed distantly behind the four-hourly pain meds she had insisted I took whether I felt I required them or not, I think we both knew that my brain needed all the blood it could get right now and to send it rushing south would in all probability cause me to pass out. Not exactly how I wanted to reintroduce myself to her it was fair to say.

But as the night wore on, the emotional connection we had shared just a few hours before as I held her beneath the stars began to fade, in fact I swear I could actually hear the sound of bricks clinking together as she quietly and thoroughly began building her walls back up even as she laid there beside me; the patented Dana Scully fortress that she was so adept at hiding behind, throwing up the drawbridge and readying herself to defend it from both friend and foe; effectively shutting herself off.

But for the life of me I couldn’t figure it out because the feeling I got from her as that long night wore on, the vibe if you like, was achingly similar to how she had been right back at the beginning of our partnership; the way she had resolutely set her jaw and insisted over and over again that she was fine. Always fucking fine and it’s a pattern that has repeated itself more times than I care to remember over the years, the difference being though that as time has wore on I have always been able to see past her denial and to a certain extent ignore it; my analytical mind able to see inside hers and break down her tightly guarded emotions in to easily manageable chunks to work on individually until her defences eventually crumble. She has always given me that at least. Until that night, as I held her in my arms, soft and pliable against me, for the first time in our long and complex relationship, I couldn’t read her. So completely had she retreated from me that she may as well have been in another room rather than breathing quietly beside me.

And even when I had whispered her name, a question in my tone that pierced the silence between us and hung in the air, awaiting some kind of response from her, there was nothing. 

I had hoped – no expected – that by the time dawn heralded the coming of a new day, she would have had a chance to process; to start to catalogue recent events in that singularly perspicuous way of hers. Using her rationalisation like a protective shield to explain her own version of the unexplainable; but truthfully she seemed as empty and as lost as I have ever seen her. To an outward observer she would have appeared completely normal in the way she fussed over me; ensuring I ate, drank, took my meds. Her hand on my forehead checking me for any signs of fever, lightly berating me when I admitted to feeling a little nauseous during the drive home because I hadn’t mentioned it earlier.

Stopping the car so we could take a walk in the fresh air, entwining her hand in mine because it was what she felt was expected of her, not because she wanted to and all the time she smiled that smile at me with her lips but not her eyes. Oh yeah, normal didn’t really cut it right now.

In fact she just looked lost; and I didn’t know how to reach her.

By the time we arrived at my apartment, my apartment not hers, she looked like she was about ready to break in to pieces in front of me. Fatigue had begun to strip away her carefully created facade of normality and truthfully I think that maybe, just maybe, if I’d pushed hard enough I might have got to the core of what was bothering her so deeply that she felt the need to shut me out completely. But knowing her like I do I was also painfully aware that if I even went just the tiniest degree over what she might be comfortable divulging, that she would rebuild those damn walls quick time this time replacing bricks with reinforced steel girders and then there would be no reaching her at all.

So, trusting my instincts in the complete absence of anything else remotely tangible I backed right off. Both physically and emotionally; giving her the space she obviously desperately needed.

And to a certain degree at least, it worked. She became slightly less guarded over the following days although she still kept me at arms length, calling every few hours to make polite small talk as to how I was feeling, was I sleeping, eating, taking care of myself? And I was slightly heartened to hear the genuine concern in her voice. Whatever was going on with her, I was pretty sure I wasn’t exactly the cause – at least not in any obvious way.

She had returned to work a couple of days after we returned from Tennessee, a decision that didn’t sit too well with me. Because I knew, oh yeah I knew, that the minute she arrived in our office, she would gravitate straight to the damn filing cabinet and pull out the file that bore her name, a file that had continued to thicken as the years went on, neatly type-written sheets that coldly catalogued just what the cost of my quest had been on her. The abduction, her coma, her sister, her cancer, the children created from that which had been stolen from her even as she came to terms with never becoming a Mother herself, the insidious way in which her life had been invaded, casually used and then discarded as though she were merely a lab rat to be experimented on, a pawn in a game that seemingly had no standard principles of behaviour; or at least not in any tangible way.

She had read through the file before, several times, and each time I had seen how it affected her as she resolutely refused to discuss it with me. I had never pushed her; maybe I should have.

Even better than that, maybe I should have removed the fucking thing from the office and burned it long ago. Because whatever she might feel whenever she read it, she could never be defined by what was in that file, that she was more, so much more than a fucking X- File. I should have removed it; destroyed it. But I hadn’t. In fact, that piece of folded cardboard now bore witness to the events of the last seven months by the new reports I had added. And by doing so I had added substance to her fears that everything that she would ever be was all bound together in that terrifying bundle of photographs and paper.

She would never tell me she had read it; of that I was fairly certain. But I just knew. I just knew that she would use this opportunity to pore over it whilst I was out of the picture on medical leave; waiting for my battered brain to stop playing depth perception tricks on me and for the headaches to abate.

So in all honestly, as much as I had hoped it wouldn’t happen, I was unsurprised when her tightly constructed armour began to unravel and she went in to freefall although I was slightly surprised at the methods she had chosen.

My cel had rung at just before eleven o’clock and initially, since I couldn’t immediately think who else would call me at all, let alone at such a late hour, I had assumed it was Scully. As it turned out I couldn’t have been more wrong because actually, the voice on the other end of the phone belonged to Mike Calvert, the owner of Callahan’s – a bar that Scully and I often frequented after a particularly trying day, a way to unwind before heading home. We generally didn’t stay for much more than an hour at a time – just enough time for me to down a beer and Scully to daintily work her way through a spritzer or tall glass of something feminine and Scullyesque. Neither of us were big drinkers.

Yeah right.

Mike sounded vaguely embarrassed as he apologised for calling me, explaining that he had pulled my number off Scully’s phone and would I mind coming and picking her up because currently she was too drunk to stand and well, he needed to shut up shop for the night.

She was drunk. Not tipsy, not gently inebriated or wobbly on her legs.

No, Scully was apparently drunk enough to be gravitating towards unconsciousness or the back of a police cruiser, whichever happened to come first.

I was off the sofa and grabbing my car keys before he had even finished speaking.

*Christ almighty Scully what the hell are you doing?*

Continued chapter 2


	22. Part 4 chapter 2

PART FOUR

CHAPTER TWO

 

The first thing I see as I enter the bar is Scully. I don’t even have to look for her, it’s as though I have a homing device that immediately picks her out of the crowd. Not that there’s much of a crowd right now; the bar is winding down for the night and there are just a few die-hard stragglers milling about and trying to eke out the remnants of earlier drinks in the hope of delaying the inevitable return to whatever disjointed existence they enjoy in real life.

I hate bars late at night. They always take on a melancholy air as more often than not, the couples and groups that lend vibrancy and atmosphere earlier in the evening drift away, leaving only the lonely and the desperate.

I guess tonight, I have to include my partner in that category.

She is seated in one of the booths that border the peripherals of the room; in fact she’s seated in a booth we have favoured on some of the occasions we have dropped by here after work. It’s close enough to the bar to make ordering easy but far enough away from the inevitable crush of people waiting to be served so as not to disturb us unduly. I’ve always enjoyed sharing this time with Scully and it’s a habit we have formed over the years, way before I even acknowledged to myself just what she meant to me, because I found that away from the office, from the constraints and rigidity of the huge federal building we inhabit, we could show a glimpse to each other of the people we really were and I think it’s fair to say that some of my fondest memories of our long partnership are all neatly tied up in this place.

It’s also fair to say though, that I won’t be adding this memory to the list.

Because seated beside her, close enough to be almost joined at the hip, is some greasy haired smarmy faced bastard who is leering at her through barely focused eyes and rhythmically running his hand up and down her arm and across her breast. Scully isn’t preventing him but then again she’s not really in any shape to be fighting anyone’s advances off, in fact I’m not sure she’s even really aware of his presence and I suddenly go cold at the possibilities should Mike not have had the presence of mind to call me to come get her. I mean, Scully is a Federal Agent; she can take care of herself in pretty much any situation. But right now, in the self-inflicted stupor she has imposed upon herself, she is just a petite redhead who is smashed out of her brains; another potential rape victim, a body to be found strangled and dumped down a dark alley or beaten to a bloody pulp and laying unconscious on a hospital gurney and I am angry, so fucking angry at her right now that I can barely think straight enough to move from where my feet have rooted themselves watching Mr Smarmy-fucking- business suit as he paws at her like she’s a piece of meat.

My reticence lasts only a heart beat before I stride over to him, keeping my anger in check but only barely as I quietly and reasonably suggest to him that he might be well advised to get up and leave unless he would like to pee through a catheter for the remainder of his life and I am surprised to see a flicker of uncertainty pass across his face as he briefly considers squaring up to me, the alpha male that is present in all of us urging him on with the promise of a succulent prize to drag home should he be victorious. It’s a dance that has been danced for all millennia and one which is still instinctively strong. Thankfully for him, his sense of preservation is equally as strong and he makes the only smart decision there is to be made and moves the fuck away.

I sidle in to the booth to fill his spot and grasp Scully’s upper arm, shaking it slightly to get her attention although her eyes, when she finally meets mine are not the eyes I know. The amount of alcohol in her system has dulled them, dulled her and her expression is alarmingly blank. I’ve known Scully for almost seven years. I’ve seen her drugged, beaten up, injured, comatose and near death; never though, have I ever seen her like this and if I’m honest, the sight of her this empty, this devoid of emotion, scares me shitless. All my anger melts away as I cup her face with one of my palms, rewarded as something within her reaches deep and connects with me. I see her expression alter slightly as my touch ignites a small spark of recognition that briefly lightens her eyes. 

“C’mon G woman, it’s time to stop the party train and get you home.”

 

XXXX

 

I decided on balance, to take her back to my apartment since it would take twice as long to drive the nine miles back to her place and I doubt she would make it without throwing up. I had half carried, half dragged her out of the bar and the fresh air, when it hit her, had caused her to slump alarmingly as she almost passed out in my arms. But she had stayed with me. Just. 

I have no experience of alcohol poisoning but I am pretty sure that Scully has downed enough booze to be teetering on the edge where simple inebriation becomes a medical emergency and I had briefly considered taking her straight to the ER as she seemed to become less and less responsive as the minutes passed by. But the fact she was still conscious tempered me slightly and I decided to see how things played out when I got her home.

The drive is a short one, but by the time we get there Scully seems just a little more together and when I touch her arm gently, she drags her head around from where she had been resting against the side of the passenger door and blinks stupidly as though trying to place me in her thoughts.

“Mul....der”

My name comes out as a slurred whisper but I take comfort from the fact that at least she is still aware enough to recognise me and I reach across to smooth a strand of hair away from where it has stuck to the corner of her mouth, wondering, not for the first time why everything has to be so fucking hard all the time for her. For us. 

But Scully is shivering slightly, either from the slight chill in the night air or from the alcohol and either way I need to stop prevaricating and get her out of the car and in to the warm.

“Can you walk?”

The slight shake of her head comes as no real surprise and despite closing her eyes suddenly, she isn’t quite quick enough to hide the single tear that escapes from those infinite blue depths to roll in silent misery down her face.

“It’s okay” I whisper not really believing it and I know that she doesn’t believe it either. Because this is not the Scully I know. The Scully I know faces her problems head on, she has a unique ability to rationalise all and every scenario she has ever found herself in and despite not always getting it right, the Scully I know doesn’t hide from herself in the bottom of a shot glass. And she has never allowed herself to admit need to me, much less allow herself to appear anything other than capable both as a partner and as a friend.

But as I open the passenger door and slide one hand beneath her knees and the other around her back, she brings her own arms up to encircle my neck, clinging on to me as if for life itself and at that moment, that defining moment where she can’t fight any more, she has never felt more fragile to me and I know that this time, there will be no running away, that as soon as she is capable, she needs to let go of whatever darkness is festering unchecked inside her; because if she doesn’t, it will destroy her as surely as if the cancer had taken her from me.

By the time we reach my apartment my knees are burning with the exertion of carrying her up the three flights of stairs to my floor. I had considered and discounted the elevator for the simple reason that I doubted Scully’s stomach would be able to cope with the sudden ascent without discharging its liquid contents all over both herself and me, something that I am damn certain neither one of us would particularly enjoy. But as slight as she is, by the time I get to the door she feels like a dead weight in my arms and I am suddenly reminded starkly of the day at the lake where sheer adrenaline fear response enabled me to run almost a mile, cradling her against me as she dressed us both in her blood. It’s a memory I doubt will ever leave me and if by some miracle I live to be a hundred, the memory of that day will be as sharply undimmed as it is for me now. The day I truly thought I had lost her.

I refuse to lose her now. 

Not when she fought so hard to stay.

It takes me a couple of attempts to get a hold of my keys but I finally manage to awkwardly position my hand at enough of an angle to pull them out of my jeans pocket and fit them in the lock, breathing a sigh of relief as I finally get the door open and step inside, setting Scully on her feet, where she sways against me and almost falls.

“Take it easy there partner.”

But suddenly she shakes her head and even before she has a chance to speak I know exactly what’s coming, the way she suddenly tenses and slams a hand to her mouth. We make it to the bathroom just in time and I can only stand helplessly as her body seeks to violently expel the unfamiliar liquid poison she has poured in to herself over the course of the evening. I hate to see Scully throw up. I mean, it’s unpleasant for anyone, but she admitted once in a rare unguarded moment that she has a phobia where vomiting is concerned – not the act itself but of the feeling of not being able to have control of her body – that unmanageable feeling where the stomach has emptied itself but then continues to spasm with painful dry heaves and the only response that seems appropriate is to break down and cry. And when she admitted it to me I could only imagine the horrors she went through with the chemo after effects the first time the cancer came to visit. 

Tonight is no less painful for her but slowly, slowly her body stills and she slumps to her knees on the cold tile, spent and boneless as huge wracking sobs steal away her ability to breath, turning tortured eyes on me in silent appeal that I find I can read just as effortlessly as though she had spoken aloud. But first I grab a wash cloth and run it under the cold tap, squeezing the excess water from it before kneeling beside her and running it over her lips, moisturizing and cleansing her at the same time, trying to ignore the way she is looking at me, her expression a combination of hurt and shame.

And all the while the tears run unchecked down her face; a face that is always beautiful to me regardless of circumstance, a face that should never be ashamed. Not with me; never with me.

So I do the only thing left to do – I pull her towards me and cradle her shaking body against mine, holding her tightly just as I have held her on countless other occasions when she has been hurting. Trying desperately to transfer some of that hurt away from her, to deflect it even a little so she might find some semblance of peace within herself. But even as the trembling stills slightly, her tears continue, and though I know that she needs this release, I also know that if she doesn’t face up to the reasons behind it, her healing will be wholly temporary, like sticking a band aid over a deep gash and pretending it hasn’t happened until inevitably the blood seeps through the fragile covering.

So I begin stroking her hair, her face, her shoulders, rubbing circles on her back over and over, calming her, bringing her back to me, kissing the top of her head that is tucked in its usual position beneath my chin whispering my desperate plea as I continue to hold her tight.

“Please tell me. *Please.*”

And maybe because she is still slightly drunk, her natural restraint is tempered and even though she hides her face from me, unable to bare herself completely, I am rewarded when she responds, her words slightly muffled.

“I’m afraid Mulder. I’m so afraid that if I love you that they will steal it away from me again....”

And then she is crying once more, even as everything slots in to place for me, that her strange mood since that night at the lake where she discovered just what she had lost has nothing to do with what they did, but what they yet might do. That even as they give, they can take away just as easily; things lost that can never be regained, taken without warning or reason, a potential that invokes such desperate fear within her that she just can’t get past it. I understand it, God knows I do; but I also know that the fear will ultimately destroy her.

I can’t allow that to happen.

I won’t.

Continued chapter 3


	23. Part 4 chapter 3

PART FOUR

CHAPTER THREE

 

I truthfully don’t know how long I sat with Scully on my bathroom floor and held her as she, in some small way, expelled the demons from within that had quietly plagued her; growing in intensity until they blotted everything else out. It’s always been this way for her I think – that inability to invite anyone else along for the emotional ride – until eventually, the hurt becomes too big for her to deal with alone and she either shuts off completely, or as was the case last night, goes to such extremes that her actions can hardly be reconciled to the person I know her to be.

The last time I remember her falling quite so hard was leading up to the whole memorable Ed Jerse incident, where her own common sense flew out the window and she returned to me with a mark on her skin that was, in some ways, less indelible than the mark he left on her soul and we both know she was lucky to walk away with her life intact.

Back then though, I was too caught up in my own selfish pursuit of the elusive truth that I had simply stopped listening to her. I had stopped noticing just how deeply unhappy she was, how confused, how lost she had become because, and if I’m honest, I had started to take her for granted; safe in the knowledge that should she try to walk away from me I had the singular ability to drag her back whether she wanted it or not. She became a part of me and as such, my acknowledgement of her as being a person in her own right became so offhand and dismissive that it was almost non-existent.

And even when I got the call from her that frightening day to meet her at the hospital where she delivered the news to me that she was dying, I still resolutely refused to be the support she so desperately needed, pushing her away as she got sicker and sicker, my own guilt at the situation blotting everything else out; making her struggle for life about me not her. I came to my senses eventually but by then so much had been lost to her that it was almost too late; and as I wept silently and painfully by her bedside as she lay sleeping, the most selfish part of me wished she would wake up just so I could beg for her forgiveness that I had been so fucking absent for so long, that I had abandoned her in every conceivable way to face it alone.

It was why, just a few short months ago that now feels like years, when she eventually told me that her cancer had returned I resolutely decided that things would be different; that I would be different. And even if she can’t remember, I think deep down she knows I did okay; that I was, in some unfathomable way, able to make amends to her. 

Because it took almost losing her the first time to fully realise what she meant to me. That it wasn’t just a question of partnership or reliance anymore; rather that Scully had woven herself so intrinsically within my soul that there was no longer any question of allowing her to hide from me. That even if she built a thousand walls to keep me out, I would somehow smash through them to find her.

I think last night, even as she clung desperately to me, refusing to really acknowledge me, I felt a subtle shift in her mindset; that even if she couldn’t fully initiate her need for someone, anyone to make things right for her she had at least managed to admit that there was cause. Which was a start I guess; and it gives me hope that she will be alright; that we will be alright.

Eventually she had stilled against me, still refusing to meet my eyes as I gently pulled her to her feet, head hanging like a snowdrop, emotions laid bare for maybe the first time since I had known her. But I hadn’t pushed her; talking could come later, would come later because I could feel the shame and embarrassment that radiated off her and knowing her as I do, I didn’t need my psychology degree to tell me that those destructive sentiments would just increase in importance in her mind until they made communication so excruciatingly painful for her that she wouldn’t even try.

But she wasn’t there yet and what she really needed was sleep. She was clearly exhausted, used up, incapable of really even attempting to rationalise much beyond the few stilted admissions she had managed to force out, face pressed against my chest as she huddled in my arms on the floor. So I did what she needed me to do at that moment;

Nothing more and nothing less. 

I undressed her carefully, almost reverently as she sat pliant and used-up on the bed before me, gently slipping her arms in to one of my soft oxford shirts and buttoning each button while all the time never letting her break contact with me as I reassured her with my eyes, with my touch that it was okay; that finally it was going to be okay. I was rewarded by the tremulous smile that appeared, albeit fleetingly on her beautiful face, a blink- and- you’d- miss- it kind of smile. But it was a start and I would take it. Oh yeah, I would take it.

I think she may well have been asleep before her head hit the pillow. Certainly she didn’t react to the soft kiss I placed on her cheek before I settled myself on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up against my chest as I watched over her as she slept.

She awoke finally at around 8am, totally panic stricken as she bolted upright in the bed, eyes wild as she sought to orientate herself. She had drunk so much booze the night before that I had no doubts that her recollections of what had transpired would be, at best a little hazy and, at worst totally fragmented. It was also clear that as she had been sleeping, a headache of mammoth proportions had been manufacturing itself to be ready to greet her full force as she opened her eyes, because her hands immediately flew to the side of her head and she emitted a strangled oath that was so unlike Scully that despite myself, I couldn’t help a brief grin which I quickly smothered as I got closer to her.

‘FUCK’

Oh yeah, hangovers of the magnitude that Scully could expect today pretty much elicited no other response.

I sat on the bed.

‘Morning’

And as her brow furrowed in response to the pain and the obvious fact that she had no idea why she was there with me, I took her hand in mine.

“Let me fill in some gaps there for you Agent Scully. Last night you drank roughly enough whiskey to sink the Queen Ann, expelled the contents of your stomach and possibly a piece of your liver in to the depths of my toilet bowl and proceeded to pretty much pass out on my bed. The all-consuming pain and feeling of intense befuddlement, not to mention a rolling sensation of nausea you are currently experiencing are all completely normal and what we generally refer to as a hangover. “

I’m not even remotely surprised by her expression of absolute mortification as colour floods her pale face and I smile at her as I run my other hand down her cheek and under her chin. Partly to reassure her that everything is fine and partly to prevent her from hiding from me as the weight of my words settle upon her.

“Wait here” 

I’m only gone a couple of minutes, just long enough to run the water cool through the tap and grab a couple of pills from the kitchen cabinet. I doubt the pills will have that much effect, but I’m guessing any relief from the pounding headache has to be better than none and I am briefly and painfully reminded of all the other headaches I was able to help alleviate for her in the past. No morphine for this one though. Self inflicted headaches are only deserving of over the counter pills unfortunately. But Scully is tough. She will ride it out okay.

And when I get back I’m pleased to see that she is still awake, albeit slumped against the headboard with her hands over her eyes, probably trying to block out the weak sunlight that has managed to filter through the cracks in the closed blind and which is now probably piercing her eyeballs like a thousand needles. But as she hears me get closer she drops her hands away and regards me through eyes that are heavy lidded and slightly bloodshot.

“God Mulder I’m so sorry....”

It’s not what I want to hear so I immediately deflect her with the pills.

“Here, take these they will help.......a bit.”

She does as I ask and continues to sip the water slowly even after she has swallowed the pills, clearly pondering her current situation as much as her pounding head will allow her.

“How did I get here?”

“Mike called me. To go pick you up before you bedded down for the night.”

I don’t mention her business suited admirer. I can’t see the point of heaping even more regret on her.

“I don’t remember........anything.”

And then she locks those blue eyes with mine, that, hung-over or not, have the ability to drive the breath from my body with their sudden intensity.

“I don’t remember anything except you Mulder.”

XXXX

I didn’t need to ask her to explain what she meant by those words. With that single explanation she told me immediately that she remembered, despite the effects of the alcohol on her system, the excruciatingly painful admission she had finally made to me last night as she literally came apart in my arms. And to admit it had been intensely difficult for her, even more so to acknowledge it now in the cold light of day, to give it credence; to make it real.

But she had opened the door, finally she had opened the door just enough to let me in although I sensed she wasn’t yet ready to give me any more, I just couldn’t bring myself to leave her alone on that bed. Knowing that somehow, we would soon be coming to the end of a journey, a journey that had seen us tread such different paths, both in our knowledge of things past but also in how we will join back together, as our stars collide and our hearts know each other again. 

That regardless of what has gone before, what really matters is what we have now. 

Of what we can be.

So, with her eyes on me, I lay on the bed, turning her body so she is facing me and slowly, with infinite care, I begin to unfasten each button on her shirt, exposing that creamy skin that has invaded my dreams, my every conscious thought, the very core of me for every minute of every day since she first gave herself to me on that night that was so bittersweet it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. The night I realised that to allow myself to lose her without ever loving her was unthinkable. That whether she was mine for a day or a week or a month or a year, there could be no greater gift in my life; in our life. 

And as I press my lips to Scully’s skin, allowing them to linger for just a moment, tracing a path along the opening I have created by unbuttoning her shirt, I am rewarded by the feel of her fingers as they suddenly, tentatively entwine in my hair, as her breathing quickens and she arches herself towards me, a expression of explicit permission, of acceptance and of wanting. She is quivering in anticipation by the time I have leisurely kissed my way up her torso, spending a little longer on her breasts as my tongue tease those perfect chestnut nipples in to peaks that tighten just a little more each time I circle them, purposely breathing gently on them as Scully moans softly beside me. It’s a sound so agonizingly familiar to me that I almost break down as tears suddenly obscure my vision even as a lazy grin threatens to split my face in two because I’m not sure I have ever felt so consumed with such differing emotions and I wish, I wish with all my heart that I have the ability to verbalise everything I am feeling right now.

But it’s not us. It’s never been us. So instead, I continue to work my way up, breathing softly as I nip at her earlobe, whispering a promise that elicits a sudden giggle from the woman beside me.

“Hey Scully, I know a great hangover cure if you’re interested...”

And I am suddenly happier than I thought I would ever be.

Because despite the monster sized hangover she is fighting, Scully - is giggling again and I think it may just be the sweetest sound I have ever heard.

Concluded chapter 4


	24. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

 

I can feel Mulders arms around me, just like when I woke up to the feel of him cuddled against me yesterday morning and the morning before that and the morning before that. Sometimes I am laid on my back and he has his head nestled in the crook of my shoulder, or resting heavily against my chest, sometimes we are facing each other and his arms are loosely draped over my hips, those long fingers just skimming the small of my back, unconsciously moving them against my skin even as he sleeps. And sometimes, like today, he is spooned against me, holding me against him with boneless, heavy arms that entrap me so completely that I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.

Not that I have any desire to try to escape.

For the first time in my life I awaken each morning with such a sense of belonging that I have to talk myself in to opening my eyes, so sure am I that what I’m feeling is just the vestiges of a beautiful dream, just like all those heartbreaking nights when I dreamed he was with me only to find myself alone, so consumed with yearning that I sometimes just wanted to lay on this bed and never get up again. Knowing that I would have to face yet another day where I had to deny to myself and to him just exactly what he meant to me, that he had somehow become my whole reason for being; for breathing; for existing. All those wasted years where we refused to acknowledge our intrinsic need, so blind that we didn’t take the time to really see just what we had become to each other; what we could be. Consumed with a fear that by allowing ourselves to be together, to admit all the yearnings that we had denied, we would become weaker and more vulnerable to those who sought to destroy us, when in actuality, being together just served to make us stronger; that the bonds that had tied us together for seven long years have now become unbreakable.

Because he is my everything and it feels like my entire universe has collapsed in on itself, bringing me to the end of a journey that has been filled with pain and suffering and loss and hurt; until finally, we have walked out of the shadows and in to the light, hearts and minds entwined, drawing strength from each other, the strength we both need to carry on with this quest that has sought to destroy us both in different ways.

I won’t say that the last few weeks have been without pain. Because I am still mourning all that was taken from us both. But slowly, slowly I am letting it go; as each day passes and I realise that the past can never hope to be recovered but that we have a present and a future together that transcends everything that has gone before and when the nightmares come occasionally to plague me, I feel his voice beside me, cutting through the darkness, quieting me, gentling me; because somehow, without me really noticing, his whispers have become louder than my screams as he floods me with light, with hope.

I truly thought I knew what love was; that I had been in love before in my life but I now know that what I feel for this man who has walked beside me, supported me and quite literally followed me to the ends of the earth, eclipses every single preconceived interpretation I may have held before.

Because love is not hearts and flowers and hollow declarations. 

Real love is hard and painful and all encompassing; it steals our souls and makes us weep in quiet desperation. Love is knowing what might be lost in our acknowledgement of it, but at the same time knowing that there is nothing more powerful, nothing more affirming than admitting to ourselves that in order to love, we have to sacrifice ourselves to the potential for heartbreak. And real love makes it easy. Easier than I ever thought it would be.

And Mulder has always been so very easy to love; even more so now I am becoming accustomed to the implicit permission that I have granted myself to do just that. I have discovered aspects to his complex personality that hitherto have been denied to me. Of course I knew him before, seven years spent in daily company with a person means that pretty much everything about them is laid bare at one time or another but I find myself entranced by everything I didn’t know. Silly little things, trivialities that make up the person within and which are so innumerable and insignificant that within days they just become a part of the fabric of daily life.

The fact that he can cook came as a shock though, given that our entire culinary experiences as partners had mainly comprised ordering from whichever take-out place happened to be closest. And I teased him the first time he cooked for me, instantly regretting it because I realised that he had probably cooked for me a hundred times when I was sick. A memory that is lost to us forever and I had wrapped my arms around him in silent apology when I saw the hurt flare briefly to cloud his expression and darken his eyes and just as he is able to banish my darkness, I am adept at making things right for him too. It’s an ability we have always had I think but one which has remained largely unspoken until now and he recovered quickly, throwing me a patented Mulder-quip that lightened the moment just as he knew it would.

We don’t talk much of the time before. Because I think it’s just too painful for both of us. For Mulder, his memories of watching me slowly decline right in front of him as he helplessly tried to hold on to me even while denying the futility of it all and for me, the empty gaping chasm in my mind where a part of my life was erased as completely as if it had never existed at all, opening a wound that will never fully heal I don’t think. But we are here and we survived and I think we both hang on to that in unspoken acknowledgement that we need to keep moving forwards never back.

We don’t go out much, to be honest we have completely bypassed the need to engage in even a semblance of the accepted courtship rituals that exist at the beginning of a relationship because after all, our courtship lasted almost seven years and there is little we could hope to learn about each other in the confines of a restaurant or a theatre or concert. Because that’s what normal people do. And our complicated relationship could never be so easily characterised in such simple terms.

And that’s why I was so surprised, when we arrived home yesterday, after a long and gruelling day at work trying to make headway through a mountain of paperwork which seems to get bigger and more tied-up with bureaucratic red tape as each day passes, he announced that we were going out. That he was taking me out.

But I played along, trying to read in his expression just exactly what he had planned although for once he was completely inscrutable aside from an air of almost childlike excitement that kept him shaking his head and smiling teasingly at me every time I tried to get even a clue as to what he had planned, eventually giving up and going to change. The only indication he was prepared to allow me is that wherever we were going, it negated the need for fancy clothing. 

 

It also negated the need for driving and I was still none the wiser when he steered me resolutely towards the metro. We don’t travel on the subway very often and it felt kind of nice to be stuck in that crowded train, pressed up against him as he slipped his warm hands beneath the hem of my shirt and traced patterns on my bare skin as the movement rocked us back and forth together. 

“Where are we going Mulder?” I had asked, frowning as he smiled down at me and shook his head, eyes intense as always as he held on to me tightly when the train filled up even more and I was jostled almost out of his arms.

But the minute we exited the station at Woodley Park, his reason for bringing me out here became clear as my senses were assailed by the smell of hotdogs that wafted tantalisingly in the air from the many vendors that were set up alongside the colourful rides and attractions that made up the annual Woodley Park summer fair. I’d been here a few times in my pre-X Files existence with Ellen and Trent but truthfully, I hadn’t thought about it in years.

Mulder though, clearly had, and what’s more he had a very specific game plan.

We had talked briefly a couple of weeks ago about the one vague memory I did have of him when I was sick. Although not a memory as such; more a collection of sounds, of feelings, that flittered around on the very edges of my subconscious wanting to be heard but seemingly lacking the form and reasoning I required to make sense of them in any real way. And although he had verbally filled in the gaps for me, it still didn’t even go halfway to giving it any real structure, and I had seen the disappointment in his face because, as he had already told me, it was his favourite memory of that time in our lives that seemed blighted with such heartache because just briefly, he had felt like he had held the universe in his hands.

And so, like children, we had plunged headlong in to that colourful place, a place of escape, of twinkling lights and carousel music that seems to have no boundaries to either age or circumstance; a magical place where we can let go of the complications that are a constant blight in the corporeal world we inhabit in our real lives and for a few short hours, throw off the constraints of adulthood and just be.

I’ve always loved fairs and the fact that my fingers were tightly entwined with Mulders made me love this one most of all; as we feasted upon this place and gorged ourselves on the experience of just for once, being able to be ourselves, to laugh both at and with each other in a way I don’t think we’ve ever been able to laugh before, falling breathless on to the grass after he chased me with the plush alien he had insisted on wasting money winning for me, gasping for air as he found my ticklish spots and showed no mercy with those long fingers of his. And as the dusk turned to darkness and the fair began to empty, he led me without speaking to the ferris wheel, where we rode round and round with the wind whipping at my hair and my eyes burning with unshed tears as I realised that everything about the last few hours had been about this moment; about adding credence to an elusive memory that they hadn’t managed to entirely steal. Giving me back something I thought was lost forever. 

And as the ride began to stop-go to enable the riders in the cars below to exit, as we reached the very top of the arc, he pulled me towards him, tangling his fingers in my hair as he kissed me with infinite tenderness, slow and deep and so excruciatingly perfect that I don’t know how I managed to stay conscious. I’ve never experienced a feeling like it, as this man, my perfect other and the centre of my world, held me in his arms and kissed me in starlight; healing me more with that single expression of love than I thought was even possible. And I wanted that moment to last forever, tears spilling over from my eyes as I suddenly realised that now it could because Mulder had somehow managed to merge old and new together and make it complete. And I think I loved him more at that moment than I ever have before.

And now, as I feel him begin to stir from his position behind me on the bed, I know that he also recreated that memory for him. To sustain him if things get bad; to know that the sacrifice he made was worth it. Because while he might think I am unaware of his undisclosed deceit regarding the lengths he went to keep me with him, I am not. Because as I discovered with my cancer, truths will always seek to be known, no matter how hard we try to keep them buried and I am fully aware of the small ridge of scar tissue at the base of Mulders neck that hides the product of the price he was required to pay to have me returned to health for the second time. That he has surrendered himself to whatever fate they decide to bestow him as recompense for giving him what he most feared to lose. And I will never tell him I know. Because I cannot add to the burden of a man who loves me enough to potentially exchange his life for my own. Instead I will continue as I always have, to walk by his side through the darkness, praying each time that the darkness is only temporary, that even as the light fades around us, somehow, because we have each other, we will survive.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this story has been such an emotional roller coaster for me. I started part 1 in 2000 – sixteen years ago – and to see it finally finished after all these years is a bit overwhelming for me. I have been truly humbled by the amount of lovely, supportive reviews I have had about this story, a story that seems to have struck a chord with many. I just write Mulder and Scully as I see them. They reside in a piece of my heart and I have known them for 23 years – over half my life and I feel privileged that I am able to write them at all. I don’t consider myself a particularly gifted writer, I read fanfic that leaves me gasping at how good it is, but I write from my heart and that must count for something right? I haven’t felt quite as emotionally connected to a fanfic since I finished ‘Dreamcatcher’ back in 2001 but this one has really got under my skin and will stay there for a very long time I think.  
> Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, enjoyed, messaged, favourited, followed and encouraged.  
> Because without the readers, there is no story.  
> If you haven’t yet reviewed please, please do so. I love to hear people’s thoughts and I honestly treasure every bit of feedback I get.  
> Ally xxx


End file.
